Harry Potter and the Black Society

Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

The characters of Melora Lilasmorte, Petr Auct, Edmund Paisot, in addition to other original characters / members / creatures of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, the Ministry of Magic, and the Muggle world, as presented in the story published herein, are the creation of M.L. Stone under the Portkey author name of carondelet. This story was authored by M.L. Stone and posted at Portkey under the author name of carondelet. Any reproduction without the express written consent of the author is strictly prohibited.

Spoiler Alert: This means you. This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...erm... Also, if you've not yet read at least Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, please back out now -- there will be spoilers to that book, as well as Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Further, if you should have an H/Hr aversion, please know that this fic is H/Hr. It will be mostly fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though you may not initially think so. Ahem. Now that you have been sufficiently warned...

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: This is my first piece of Harry Potter fan fiction. I must warn you, gentle reader that this is a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. Therefore it will feel at times that events are moving slowly. Also, though alluded to in the early chapters, the /Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. There are plenty of MacGuffins, red herrings, whatever you would like to call them, sprinkled throughout as well, so if you aren't one to put up with all of that, sadly, this fic mightn't be for you...

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HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER ONE: CIRCUMRADIANT DAWN

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Dreary. It was dreary. And grey. And foul. And terrible. And all of the things that he hated, loathed, and despised. He was trapped at Number Four, Privet Drive, had been trapped there for the entirety of the summer, and there was nothing to be done about it save wait for September.

He turned over, moving from his stomach to his back, and stared at the dismal ceiling from his dismal bed in his dismal hand-me-down room wearing his dismal hand-me-down clothes. He sighed loudly, not caring if they heard, and closed his eyes. He heard the sympathetic murmur from his owl, Hedwig, the sole bright spot in the house. Her sympathy was of little consolation, however; he wasn’t certain of how much more of it he could take, how much more of the odious Dursleys he could take. He ran a hand through his hair and eased off his eyeglasses with the same motion. Turning, he dropped his glasses off onto the bedside table to his right, and found himself facing the photo of his parents.

His dead parents.

No, dearly departed.

No, murdered.

He stared at the image, being close enough so that he didn’t have to squint to be able to see them clearly without his glasses. Stared at the smiling faces of his father and mother. His father, who, as everyone who’d known James Potter told his son, he looked exactly like; his mother, who, as everyone who’d known Lily Evans Potter told her son, he had the eyes of. He stared at them, entranced for what surely must have been the millionth time. They were so happy in the photo. Dancing and whirling, giddy, smiling, as the autumn leaves showered them. The photo was in black and white, but he knew that it was autumn. He knew it was a brisk and clear day. He knew that his mother had suggested that they go out for a walk in a near-by park, someplace in Godric’s Hollow, and that his father had assented. He knew that his father had impishly challenged her to a race, and that she daringly took him up on the challenge, and that James and Lily ran, giggling, through the streets, holding hands. He knew that the wind had blown the cap from his mother’s head and that his father had gallantly chased it down. He knew that his father then ran his fingers through his mother’s fiery red hair, removing the trespassing leaves that had entangled themselves in the fine strands. He knew that they had taken the photo on a whim, just as they had ventured into the autumn afternoon on a whim, and that James had twirled Lily in his arms in an impromptu waltz...

It amazed him, yet again, that such a happy image, such a happy thought, could cause him such pain.

He turned away from the photo to again stare at the ceiling. Dull white over raised plaster, designed in random, swirling, designs. But it wasn’t entirely random; after a few years of staring at that ceiling, he knew that the swirls had a pattern. The swirls were made with intent, idle or otherwise, but made with intent nonetheless. He knew the design of the damn ceiling by heart.

“I have got to get out of here,” he growled softly. Hedwig quietly hooted in agreement.

He flopped over on the bed, not caring if they heard, and buried his face in the pillow and tried very hard not to cry.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

...and the actions I have hated...

It was some time later that he awoke, eyes burning, throat raw. There was a slight ringing in his ears, some strange melody. He wrote it off as a lingering dream. He was still fully dressed, lying atop his still made bed. Damn it to hell, he’d cried himself to sleep. Again. And woke up on Privet Drive. Again. Damn it.

He shifted in the bed and looked at his wristwatch. It was only half-ten. Bloody hell. It wasn’t even decently late, like, oh, three in the morning. It was half-ten in the evening.

He groaned, and again buried his face in the pillow.

That’s when he noticed it.

Talking.

Someone was talking.

The realization gave him a moment’s pause. The voices were clearly not that of his Uncle Vernon or his cousin Dudley. Both were brutish, uncouth, boorish creatures, incapable of any speech that did not consist of shouting or snarling. The voices were gentle, the conversation hushed. It most definitely did not involve his uncle or his cousin.

He could swear that once voice was that of his aunt. The other...was female. It was a low voice, and very soft, but he knew it was female.

Who on earth was his Aunt Petunia speaking to at half-ten in the evening? It was well past her bedtime. Uncle Vernon always lumbered to bed at half-nine, and Aunt Petunia had always dutifully advanced him, ascending the stairs to prepare their bed at quarter-past.

It occurred to him that it might be someone from the Order. A female member...Tonks, perhaps? It didn’t matter -- someone, anyone, he would sorely welcome anybody who wasn’t a Dursley, maybe even Voldemort himself. He scrambled to his knees, and started to crawl on the bed toward the door, but then stopped. When Uncle Vernon plodded to bed, he always stopped to bolt the door. He always stopped to bolt the door to his room. From the outside. He always locked him in.

“Fat, miserable bastard,” he hissed under his breath. If it were Tonks or someone else from the Order, she would surely stop by to see him. He thought wildly for a moment. If Tonks thought he was asleep, she might not want to bother him, so he had to sound awake, he had to let it be known that he was up and not asleep, so that way she would feel that it was fine to drop by his room to say hello, something, anything, come on, please, someone, see me, talk to me, acknowledge me.

He flung himself off the bed, grabbing his glasses and pulling them on in the process, making sure his feet stepped on every creaky floorboard as he walked to his desk. He dragged the chair out, scraping the legs against the wood floor as he did so, and then sat in it soundly. Then he pulled the chair underneath the table, again dragging the legs. There. That should do it. Dudley certainly did not study, so there would be no reason to think that the noise came from the desk of that awful toad.

Unless Aunt Petunia said so.

He found himself desperately wishing against this with all of his might.

Please don’t say it’s Dudley. Please don’t say it’s Dudley. Please don’t say it’s Dudley. Please don’t say it’s Dudley...
Pleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudley...
PLEASE...Pleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudley
pleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’sDudleypleasedon’tsayit’s...

He heard the front door quietly close and heard it latch. He heard the lock turn and the chain being drawn to a close.

No. Please... God...come back...don’t leave me here...alone...

He stood up roughly, causing the chair to rock back and forth, and stared down into the front garden. He watched a dark figure walk down the front path toward Privet Drive. He couldn’t tell if it was Tonks. The figure was mostly definitely a woman...she could be Tonks. He raised a hand to knock against the glass of his bedroom window.

A gentle rapping from his bedroom door shocked him out of action. He turned and stared at the door, dumbfounded. Who would be knocking at his door? The Dursleys never knocked. They simply barged in whenever they felt like it. There it was again. Soft. Gentle. Respectful? Never. His mind was playing tricks on him.

He turned to look down to the street and saw that the visitor had disappeared. “Damn,” he cursed softly.

The soft knock came again, this time followed by, “Harry?”

He froze at the desk, body half way turned toward the door, one hand on the back of the chair. He somehow found his voice. “Y-y-yes?”

“May I come in, Harry?”

Was his Aunt Petunia was asking his permission to come in? He swallowed hard and stammered, “Y-y-yes.”

It was dead quiet in the house save for the occasional rumbling from Uncle Vernon, whose snores sometimes rattled the windows. He could just hear Dudley as well, sleeping with his mouth open, sucking in the air in the same manner as he would suck down chocolate milk through a straw. And now, he could just hear the tumblers in the locks withdraw, and hear metal on metal, as the locks on the outside of his bedroom door were undone.

The door slowly opened, and Aunt Petunia stepped into the room, blinking against the light from the lamp on his bedside table. It wasn’t very bright in his room, but it was black in the hallway. He was of the impression that she had spent the conversation downstairs in the dark. “Good evening, Harry,” she said quietly. She carried Uncle Vernon’s set of keys, Harry’s Locks Keys, in one hand. She held it tentatively, as if it harmed her to touch it.

He gulped again. “Good evening, Aunt Petunia.” He was not only surprised that one, Aunt Petunia had actually asked for permission to come into his room, but two, that Aunt Petunia was in the room at all (she usually did not venture anywhere near the room save to demand that he do the laundry or cook the breakfast or mow the lawn or some such), and three, that Aunt Petunia looked as though she had been crying, and... What was it, oh yes, four, that she had gotten hold of his uncle’s set of keys in order to get into his bedroom.

And five, that, when she finally looked at him, it was with sadness and a degree of...fondness in her eyes.

Bloody hell. I must be going mad, Harry thought to himself.

Aunt Petunia closed the door behind her and gestured to his bed. “May I...?”

“Um, yeah. Sure. I mean, yes.” Watching Aunt Petunia gingerly sit on the edge of his bed gave Harry the sudden urge to sit down himself. He turned the chair round to face her and sat, with his back rigid and hands clenched at his sides, and waited.

She seemed unsure of herself. For the first time in his seventeen years, he saw Aunt Petunia at a complete loss. He soon realized that she was staring at the photo of his parents on the side table. The photo of them dancing and laughing on an autumn afternoon.

“They were quite a striking couple, weren’t they?” she murmured.

Harry boggled. What did she say?

She coughed and faced him. “I’m sorry to...disturb you, Harry. I heard...I heard you studying and as you were awake...” She shook her head and lowered her gaze. He saw her take a tissue and dab at the sides of her eyes. His eyes widened in return.

“Aunt Petunia,” he said at length. “What happened? Who—” and here he nearly lost his nerve “—who came here tonight?”

She sniffled, dabbed at her nose with the tissue, and then said, haltingly, “A friend of yours, Harry.”

At this he leaned forward in the chair, excitement overriding all else. “A friend? Who was it? Please tell me.”

“She...didn’t tell me her name, just that she was a friend of yours. From a group.” Aunt Petunia stopped and shook her head vehemently. “Oh, Harry, I am so sorry.”

“What?” He didn’t mean for it to come out so sharply, but it did.

“For everything. I am sorry. So sorry. I know that...this is not...this is not what your parents would have wanted for you. I know that Lily...you are so like them, you know. Beyond looking like your father, and even acting like him on occasion, you are so much like her as well. And I do miss her. I didn’t understand it, I was jealous of it, her being a witch, of her being magical, but I miss her. She was my sister and I...I was so loathsome, Harry, to her, to your father, to you. I am so sorry for that. I know that you will be starting your last year at Hogwarts soon and after that you will be gone, away from us.” All of this tumbled from her lips rapidly, spilling from her in a torrent of words and sobs. Harry could only gape at her, stunned at the sudden change in his aunt. She gasped and then reached over to take him by the shoulders firmly. “You should run, Harry, run as far and as quickly away from us as you possibly can, don’t come back here after you’ve graduated, go and live your life the way you wish it and forget about us and the terrible things we’ve done to you. Please. I implore you.” The last statement came in the form of a whisper.

Harry blinked. Her blue eyes (they were blue? He never noticed they were blue) were brimming with tears and she looked...she was looking...why did she look like she cared about him?

“Aunt Petunia,” he began thickly, “I don’t understand.”

She drew in a loud, shuddering sigh, and collapsed back down onto the bed. She had risen, half-standing, to take a hold of him. Her hands fell into her lap and she looked intently down at them, turning the tissue over and over between her fingers. “There have been so many lies,” she finally said. She had spoken so softly that Harry wasn’t sure that he had heard her. “So many lies over the years. I lied about James and Lily.” Harry felt something seize in his throat at that. “I lied about hating them being together. I lied when I said I opposed their wedding. I lied when I said I wasn’t happy that Lily was pregnant with you. I lied when I said I wasn’t upset at their deaths. I lied when I said they deserved what they got. I lied when I said I never wanted you.”

Harry slumped back into the chair, his head reeling. It was...too much. When she had first said that she had lied about James and Lily, his parents, Harry felt his throat tighten and his stomach churn. The revelation of the nature of her lies both comforted and surprised him. At least she hadn’t lied in the way his worst imaginings were leaning. But, in a way, it was almost worse than that. The agony, the mind-numbing monotony of the abusive and tedious life he led at the Dursleys, repressing him all summer long, it was wiped clean away by his aunt’s sudden repentance...what in the hell happened down there?

Harry had further stunned himself by saying it aloud.

His aunt didn’t even chastise him on his use of language. “I was reminded, Harry,” she whispered, “of all the lies that I have told. Of all of the actions that I have hated.”

That sounded familiar. Why did it sound familiar?

“I was reminded to look at you. To see you. For the person you are, not what you are. I was reminded that you are not just a...wizard, but that you are just Harry.” His aunt’s face twisted again as she fought against the tears. “You are a good boy, Harry,” she told him. Her voice broke as she said it and he found that his heart felt like it would break at that. She had reached for his hands and she clasped them in her own. Harry looked wide-eyed from her to his hands and back again. “You are such a good boy. And I never told you. Lily could never forgive me, or James. You are sweet. Despite everything we’ve done. The horrible things we’ve done. You are kind. You’ve never taken, you’ve only given. You are smart. Heavens, but you are intelligent, I see it every day. And you are generous. You’ve never once begrudged Dudley for all of the things I spoiled him with. I have spoiled him terribly and have given you nothing.”

For some reason, Harry felt the need to come to his aunt’s defence. “No, Aunt Petunia, that’s not true. You and...Uncle Vernon...you gave me a home.

You...protected me. This is the only place where I am safe, outside of school.”

She shook her head sadly. “You’re only safe here because I am your mother’s sister. The wards that our shared bloodline has placed over this house...I might not be a witch but my sister...my sister was a witch and I know certain things and have been told of many others. You are only safe here because we are blood relations. And safe like that...it’s not enough...never could be...you should be safe in so many other ways.”

Harry was blinking rapidly now. He still did not understand what had happened or what he was witness to, but the brutality of it was driving him to tears.

“Aunt Petunia...”

“I am so sorry.” She shuddered and released his hands. “I am ever so sorry, Harry...”

“Aunt Petunia...”

“Oh, Lily, James, please forgive me.”

Harry felt his eyes sting and saw his vision blur. Oh no, you didn’t. You didn’t just ask...

“I’m sorry.” With that, Petunia Evans Dursley buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Harry, being the good boy that he was, being as kind hearted as he was, moved from the chair to the bed. He awkwardly sat next to his weeping aunt. She was still his aunt. Still his blood. Still his mother’s sister. She was all that he had left of her. He reached out, unsure of what exactly to do, and softly touched his aunt on the shoulder. She nearly jumped; then, she fell against him, hugging him, crying, stroking his hair, murmuring things like, “You are such a good boy. They would be so proud. You are so handsome, like James. You are so kind, like Lily. You are such a good boy. You deserve love, Harry, and happiness. Oh, Harry, my good boy, I do love you.”

It was then that Harry broke into tears of his own and hugged his aunt with all of his strength. “I-I love you too, Aunt Petunia...” he choked, overcome with emotion.

For the first time in his life, Harry was held by a family member, and was held with compassion, not loathing. For the first time in his life, Harry felt love in the Dursley house. For the first time in his seventeen years, Harry felt that he was aware of what it was like to be held by his mother.

∞

Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Additional disclaimers may be found in Chapter One, “Circumradiant Dawn”.

Spoiler Alert: As previously noted, this fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...right, then. Ah, yes, if you should have an H/Hr aversion, please know that this fic is H/Hr. It will be mostly fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though you may not initially think so. Really. Hmm. Now that you have been sufficiently warned...

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: Many thanks to RONIN10 for the review of “Circumradiant Dawn” and my thanks to all of those who have read the first chapter. Again, this is my first piece of Harry Potter fan fiction. My previous still stands, gentle reader: this is a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. Therefore it will feel at times that events are moving slowly. Though alluded to in the early chapters, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. There are plenty of MacGuffins, red herrings, whatever you would like to call them, sprinkled throughout as well, so if you aren't one to put up with all of that, sadly, this fic mightn't be for you...

And now for something completely different: for the tail end of the holidays (Happy Christmas and Happy Boxing Day), a bit of normalcy for Harry.

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HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER TWO: NUMBER NINETY-THREE, WEASLEY’S WIZARD WHEEZES

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Diagon Alley was just as he remembered it. It was an unusual place, but then, Harry Potter was an unusual young man (despite his protestations of being “just Harry). Diagon Alley was the wizard’s shopping district and in order to find it one would have to be a wizard, which, by fortunate coincidence, Harry was. He was a wizard starting his last year at Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry was a lanky young man of seventeen, fair, still on the slight side despite his age, with unruly black hair and brilliant green eyes. His round spectacles were perched upon his nose, and his not to be controlled fringe was partially obscuring the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

In Harry’s mind, Diagon Alley was exactly the same, the same as the first time he’d set foot there with Rubeus Hagrid, his friend and teacher. Despite the Second War, Diagon Alley still held the same sense of whimsy and…well, magic, as he had first experienced six years ago. It was though time had stopped in Diagon Alley, and for that he was quite glad. He had feared that the war would have changed things, but the Alley was still the same. There were the same sights, the sounds, the smells…most definitely the smells, he thought. Rather, the peculiar odours that wafted in and out of storefronts seemingly at will, accosting passers-by. The slightly dusty and unmistakable scent of leather and parchment from Flourish and Blotts’; the strange mix of wood and age from Ollivanders’; the comforting animal scents and occasional drifts of feathers from Eeylops Owl Emporium; and now, the curious fusion of Ultra Dungbombs, Stinking Sniffling Pong Tang Smellers, and Niff Naff Grenades campaigning up and down the alley from number ninety-three, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“Oi, wot in the bloody hell are they up to?!” exclaimed Ron Weasley, brother of the perpetrators of the horrific stench. He had pulled his jumper up over his nose and mouth like a mask. With little more than his red hair sticking up out of the jumper, Harry thought Ron looked a bit like the eraser end of a pencil. Harry stared at him, uncommitted to laughter due to the stench surrounding them. After the bizarre events of his last month at the Dursleys, he had been in desperate need of a good laugh. The visual became too much for him and, as desperate as he was for one, Harry found that it was very hard not to laugh for the thick miasma of prankster funk swirling about. Finally, Harry could no longer help himself, and so he paid dearly by catching whiffs of the bizarre odour concoction.

And then he looked to their right.

With tears streaming down his cheeks, he chortled, “I – I – look at her!” Then he doubled over, pointing a finger across from them, coughing and laughing and crying.

Ron, still covered nose to mouth, looked at where Harry was pointing.

It was their best friend, Hermione Granger, and she was as pale as a white linen bed sheet. She had just walked straight into a cloud of the roaming malodorous brew. Her normally bushy hair went limp and she dropped the mass of books that she had been carrying to clamp her hands firmly over her mouth and nose. She had performed such a perfect pantomime of disgust that Harry was nearly on his knees, laughing and coughing.

Ron was quick to follow suit, although, thanks to the meagre protection of his jumper, he was not nearly coughing as much. “That’s priceless, that is,” he wheezed through the fabric.

Hermione took notice of them and was angry enough to be able to stamp over to them, her hands still clasped over her face. “Amb what do you dink you’re laughink at?”

Ron nearly fell over at the question.

Harry managed to straighten himself up and, in as earnest a tone as he could manage, said, “Nothing, Hermione.”

This sent Ron into roars of guffaws, mixed with fits of coughing.

“Id nod fubby!” Hermione exclaimed through her hands. “Your brodders have a lod of explainink do do, Won!” At this, Harry fell on top of Ron, tears streaming down both their faces. “Dis is wary serious! Dave creaded a held hazard!” They roared louder, pausing to cough madly. Finally, even Hermione had to admit that she sounded funny, and that, combined with the comic sight of Ron and Harry rolling around on the cobblestones, gasping for air, broke her down to choking giggles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They had managed to get themselves together enough to brave their way to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The joke shop that Ron’s older brothers Fred and George had opened in Diagon Alley more than a year earlier was a raging success. Current Hogwarts students, recent graduates, and prank-minded wizards and witches crowded the store constantly, seeking the latest ways in which to annoy, vex, and generally harass one another.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were only just spotted by the twins as they attempted to cram themselves into the shop. “Hoi! Come to check on your investment, Harry?” Fred called out to him.

George manoeuvred around the throng to give them hearty embraces. “Come for something that will make your parting with Hogwarts a blast?” he asked with a wink and a grin. They were both wearing identical double-breasted suits made of a shiny grey material. To Harry it appeared that they were literally wearing sharkskin suits. Pinstriped sharkskin suits. With blue and white striped shirts with very large collars, flowery yellow, orange, and red ties, and a sunflower in each boutonnière – it was rather amazing, Harry thought. He felt an elbow in his ribs from Ron and saw him nod toward the floor. Harry nearly laughed. The twins also wore two-toned brogues in black and white patent leather, with a bit of tartan sock showing beneath the cuffed trouser leg. Harry and Ron traded wide-eyed glances.

Fred sidled up alongside his twin, his hands upon his lapels. “As you could probably tell, we have our Perfectly Pongy Prankster’s Parcel on sale today. Inspired by you, little brother. Three for the price of one, only ten Sickles.”

A grin crept over Ron’s face. “Nice one…”

George leaned in close and winked. “Twenty-percent off discount for relations, part-time employees, and the like,” he smiled.

The grin grew even larger. “Wicked!”

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron. Harry could practically read her mind in that moment. He was certain that she had thought one thing of Ron: incorrigible. “It’s wonderful that you are doing so well,” she said to the twins, a genuine smile on her face. “I hear that the store is always packed.”

Fred and George both rocked back on their heels, their hands thrust into their trouser pockets, wearing smiles of contentment. “Yes, indeed, yes, indeed,” they said in unison.

Fred began, “If not for our good friend Harry’s…”

“…rather charitable financial contribution…”

“…this dream of ours could have never been…”

“…made reality,” George finished.

Harry and Hermione looked at one another in amazement. Apparently, the twins hadn’t lost their knack for being able to finish one another’s sentences. Ron, having been around it all of his life, was duly unimpressed.

They suddenly extended their hands toward Harry, serious looks upon their faces. “Harry, we heard the news,” said Fred.

George nodded sombrely as Harry, with good grace, shook hands with them. “Yes, yes, terrible business, old boy, absolutely frightful.”

Hermione and Ron gaped at Harry in a bit of shock. “What’s happened? Is everything all right?” she asked.

Harry laughed and said to the twins, “So, you’ve heard, have you?”

“Yes, we always know when…”

“…some poor punter’s been named prefect.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she gave Harry a tremendous hug. “Prefect? Oh, Harry! That’s wonderful!” She flung her arms around his neck. Harry awkwardly accepted the embrace. He still felt a bit uneasy where hugs were concerned from the tail of his summer. Though he didn’t really mind it when it came from Hermione... He traded bemused glances with his other best friend.

As Harry and Hermione separated, Ron shook his head and rolled his eyes. He too extended a hand to his friend in commiseration. “Now it makes perfect sense. Sorry to hear about that, mate.”

Hermione shot Ron a nasty look, one that made Harry laugh. “It’s wonderful, Harry,” she said sternly, still glaring at Ron. All three Weasleys pulled faces. Then she turned to Harry and smiled. “It’s been a long time coming.”

“Actually, it has,” Harry started with a shrug. A loud crash from the rear of the shop caught their attentions.

“SORRY!” It was the voice of Lee Jordan, their friend and recent graduate of Hogwarts. Unlike Gred and Feorge, who had left the school thanks to the intolerable Dolores Umbridge, Lee had stayed through to graduation and carried on winding up the former Headmistress (Headmistress only by Ministry appointment, it was important to add) in their names. It was a rather excellent campaign, aided and abetted by the entire student body, faculty, and the resident ghosts. Even the school’s thorny poltergeist Peeves had carried on in the twins’ names. When the subject came up, Fred and George got tears in their eyes. They were choked up completely when the subject of the memorial Portable Swamp was mentioned.

Then, another voice: “Ah, it’s all right. No harm done. Much.” It was a woman’s voice.

“Blimey, I think that’s going to stain. I’m really sorry.” It was Lee again.

“S’awright, it’s only a pair of jeans,” the woman said. From their position, Harry and his friends could just see Lee and the back of the woman he was speaking to. All they really saw was dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail, a black leather jacket, and black jeans. “A little spell will sort it out, eh?” she continued. Whatever Lee had done, the woman didn’t seem upset in the least. Matter of fact, to Harry, she sounded amused. And familiar. He blinked slowly, trying to place the voice within a different context.

He was distracted as the twins gave brief bows to him, Ron, and Hermione. “Pardon us, lady and gents,” said Fred. He looked to George and said, sombrely, “George, old boy, we’re needed.” They disapparated with a loud and satisfying ‘pompf’ and apparated in the back of the store in order to see what had happened. “’Ello, ’ello, ‘ello, wot’s all this then?” George’s voice floated back to them.

“Just another day at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” Ron said gamely, with a smile.

The trio looked to one another, grinned, and then all shrugged in unison. “Right, then, where to next?” asked Hermione.

Ron dug his letter from his back pocket. “Flourish and Blotts’, I s’pose. Have you seen the booklist? Bloody hell. I’m not even sure we can get half of these books in Diagon Alley.”

Hermione shook her head knowledgably. “No, I’m afraid. You’ll have to go to a Muggle bookshop, Ronald.” At this the already fair redhead visibly blanched. He shot a wide eyed look of panic at Harry. Hermione smiled at this and patted Ron on the arm reassuringly. “It’s all right; Harry and I will go with you. Right, Harry?”

Harry grinned at his friend, thoroughly enjoying the thought of Ron, who was from a purely wizarding family, roaming about in Muggle bookshop. “Absolutely, Ron. Hermione and I will take good care of you. You have nothing to worry about.”

Ron was shaking his head. “Nothing to worry about, he says. Easy enough for you, you both come from Muggle families. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t know a sound from an ounce to a dram.”

Harry and Hermione grinned at one another and they escorted Ron out into Diagon Alley. “Pound, Ron, it’s a pound…as sound as a pound is the saying. No matter, you just come with us, Ron, it’ll be all right. We’ll stop by Gringott’s first and do an exchange for you. Hermione, I don’t suppose your parents would mind taking us into London?” Harry asked, as they disappeared in to the swirl of wizards and witches.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry had managed to have a compartment all alone. On the Hogwarts Express, speeding through the countryside to Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at the start of a new school year, that was a rare thing.

Ordinarily, his friends would have been in the compartment with him, but as Ron was still a prefect in Gryffindor, and Hermione was Head Girl, they had students to tend to. They had changed into their school robes as soon as the train had departed from Platform 9 ¾. Hermione had given Harry such a beaming smile after he’d pinned on his prefect’s badge. Ron just shook his head in sympathy. Thought not usually the case, despite it being his first year as a prefect (and his last, since he would be hopefully graduating at the end of the term), Harry really didn’t have an assignment on the train. He wondered if it was special treatment, courtesy of being The Boy-Who-Lived. He snorted derisively at the thought. He had come to despise that title. In any case, regardless of the reason, there was nothing much to do but be left to his own devices for the journey.

He watched the landscape move in a blur past the train’s window. He felt very bored, alone in the compartment. He did not feel like wandering about the train, even though he was a prefect. He could certainly give Draco Malfoy a nice shock. Hello, Draco, guess what? And flash his prefect’s pin at the nasty little twit. No, the thought was far too tempting, and given how volatile things had become in the wizarding world thanks to the war… Also, Draco might try some dark magic on him, leading to a rather ugly duel. There were too many first years around – they would have no idea of how to defend themselves. He certainly didn’t want to think over the events of his last month at the Dursleys. It was still too…raw, too emotional, and too bizarre for him to deal with yet. Harry thought about instead practicing a spell or two to wile away the time. It seemed like a very good idea. Defence spells were becoming increasingly useful.

He withdrew his wand from the inside of his robes and held it in front of him. It occurred to Harry that he had never really taken a very good look at his wand. He leaned forward, holding the wand in the lamplight.

Mr. Ollivander had told him that it was made from holly. Harry thought that was a curious thing for a wand to be made from, something that one would decorate the house with at Christmas time. It was also supposed to be poisonous. The berries were, at least. He idly remembered Professor Trelawney mewing on about how wonderful it was that a holly wand had chosen him as holly made the best wands for dream magic. Harry was decidedly unimpressed with that piece of information.

He set the wand on a rail against the train window and folded his arms in front of him. He leaned against the wall of the compartment, feeling the vibrations of the train. Harry stared at the slender piece of wood.

It was such a small thing and yet capable of such wonders…and of such horrors. He had seen that first hand, too many times now.

Harry frowned as he heard a faint tapping. At first he had not recognized the sound amongst the clangs and thumps and clatters of the train, but then it struck him: someone was knocking on the compartment door.

He turned to face the door and called out to his would-be visitor. “Come in.” As the blinds on the corridor side of the compartment were drawn, he did not know who was trying to enter.

It was Hermione. Harry’s face brightened at the sight of her and she returned the smile. “Hello, Harry. Sorry that you’ve been in here all alone.” She slid the door closed behind her and entered the compartment.

He grinned as Hermione sat down across from him. “It’s all right. I know that you and Ron have loads to do. You especially, now that you are Head Girl.” Hermione demurely looked to the carpeting. “You know, in case I hadn’t told you, congratulations on being named Head Girl.”

She smiled at him, quite sweetly he thought. “You have told me, Harry. About a hundred times now.”

“Oh. A hundred times? Really? How many times have I told you that I am proud of you?” He flashed a grin at her.

“Hmm, a think a hundred times as well,” she smiled at him.

“Hmm. Well, then. I s’pose such scintillating conversation has turned me from Just Harry to Just Boring Harry.” At this she laughed, the action he had been hoping for.

“Now you are just being ridiculous.”

“I am.” He grinned again, and then took a turn for the serious. “I’m just sorry that I’ve been a bit useless so far as a prefect.” He blinked and cast a glance at the door. “Where is Ron?”

Hermione made a peculiar face, one that meant she objected to something, and replied, “Well, I’m afraid that he’s teaching the first years some unpleasant things.” At that Harry started to laugh. “It’s not very funny, Harry,” she said in all seriousness. He knew that she disapproved of the corruption of the younger students, especially where it concerned the prankster Weasley twins. “Granted, the first years were asking him all about his brothers’ joke shop, but he didn’t have to entertain their questions by actually teaching them how to use the gags and the prank spells.”

Harry composed himself for Hermione’s sake and nodded in mute agreement. She appeared satisfied by this and smiled in appreciation. “I’m sorry, but I never did ask you, Harry. How was your summer?” He felt his face contort at the question, despite his best efforts. He heard Hermione suck in her breath at the sight. She quickly moved to sit next to him and touched him on the arm. “Harry, I’m sorry…”

He shook his head. “No. No, it’s not – it’s not quite that.” He frowned, searching for the words. Not finding any to his liking, he stood up, turned, and reached for the shelf above his seat. He pulled down a backpack and set it between him and Hermione. “Yeah, I know,” he said in response to her quizzical look, “I got a backpack as a belated birthday present.”

“From whom?” she asked. For his birthday, Hermione had given him a set of playbooks for Quidditch: the pages were enchanted so that, with whatever play was diagrammed, the players would enact that play on the page. It was also good for the idle bit of cartooning, which Harry did whenever he felt the need to stick one to Dudley. Ron had given him a subscription to Quidditch Illustrated. For that, he told Ron off. He knew that purchasing a subscription on a tight budget was a hardship for Ron, but the red-head had fobbed him off, saying that he was working the summer at his brother’s joke shop and he could damn well do as he pleased with the proceeds. Harry had sworn to get Ron back for that nicety.

“My Aunt Petunia gave me the backpack,” he told Hermione. He grinned as her eyes widened in surprise. “Yeah, I know, I had the same look on, believe me. But, it gets…better. Or worse. Depends on your perspective.”

Hermione shook her head in amazement. “All right, I’ll bite, how was your summer, again?”

He pulled the zipper, reached into the backpack and pulled out a paper box. It was the kind that photos were usually stored in. He moved closer to Hermione as she shifted to be closer to him. He moved the backpack to the floor to make more room and opened the lid of the box.

Inside were photos. The box was literally filled to the brim with photos. A combination of wizard and Muggle photos. He heard Hermione gasp. “Oh, Harry, is that…?” She tentatively reached out with a finger, pointing at a black and white photo.

On impulse he grabbed the photo, placed it in her hand, and with his fingers, wrapped hers around it. “That’s my dad, Sirius, Remus, and my mom at school. This is them at Hogwarts.” He smiled and laughed as a look of wonder spread across Hermione’s face as she examined the photo. She looked from the enchanted image, to Harry, and then back again several times over. He laughed again. “Yeah, I know, I look exactly like him.”

“My God, Harry, you do!” Now Hermione was laughing. “You do look exactly like your father when he was at Hogwarts.” She held the photo next to Harry’s face, and the enchanted figures all pointed at him and then started to make funny faces at the camera. Hermione couldn’t stop laughing. “I can’t believe it!” She again looked from the photo to Harry’s beaming face. “Where on…?”

“Aunt Petunia!” he announced with a loud chortle. He then proceeded to tell Hermione everything about that strange night. He even included how miserable he felt in the room that evening, to crying himself to sleep (and his heart nearly stopped at the look of sadness on Hermione’s face when he told her that), but was stopped when he came to the strange visitor.

“Who was it, Harry?” Hermione had cut in.

Harry looked to the compartment floor in abashment. “I…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she asked incredulously. “Harry…you could have been in danger!”

“But nothing happened, Hermione! I mean, nothing other than this woman making my aunt nice to me for the first time in my life!”

Hermione sighed loudly, a sign that she was frustrated with him. “But maybe that is a part of some plan. She could have been a Death Eater.”

“Firstly, wards have been placed on the house due to my aunt’s blood relationship to my mother.”

She interrupted him. “That only affects Vold-Voldemort. It’s not very specific to Death Eaters, is it?”

Harry rolled in his eyes in irritation and continued. “Secondly, if she was a Death Eater, why not kill me? Why tell my aunt something that would make her nice to me and make me even think for one moment about staying in that bloody house?” He had not realized it, but his voice had grown in volume to the point that the last question came out as a shout.

He paid for it by the look on Hermione’s face. Her lips tightened into a thin line and her eyes narrowed at him. “Voldemort has failed and failed miserably to destroy you, Harry,” she started. Her voice was surprisingly cold. “Perhaps a face-to-face confrontation would leave you the victor yet again.”

Harry’s mind wandered to the prophecy, Headmaster Dumbledore’s voice echoing in his head with those damned words, the ones that he wished he could forget… ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.’

A line, the same line, always the same damn line, repeated itself in his mind. “And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.” He suddenly realized that Hermione was still talking and dragged his focus back to her lecture.

“...I do not think that Voldemort is the sort who would leave such things to chance. If he could find a way to distract you, he would. If he could find a way to tear you down from the inside, mentally, so that he would weaken you, he would.”

Harry shook his head vehemently. “I don’t think it was him, Hermione. I don’t think that this was influenced by him at all. Not with…I mean, my aunt was sobbing for all of the misery she and her lot have put me through. This was not Voldemort or some meddling Death Eater.” Although she was far from satisfied with this, he proceeded to tell Hermione of his aunt’s tear-stained confession. Her brow first twitched in fear, and then creased in thought.

“Oh, my,” she said simply. “Well…I’ll have to think more on this. I mean…it’s all so…”

Harry nodded in understanding, and then told Hermione of Aunt Petunia’s subsequent reparations. The first of many being letters, love letters, that James had sent Lily via owl during summers away from Hogwarts, to articles of clothing that had belonged to both (James had given Lily his school scarf, his tie, his Quidditch goggles, there was Lily’s first cap, her first year uniform…). Then, perhaps the best of all, the photos. Hundreds of photos, both Muggle and enchanted. Photos of his mother as a child, from her infancy to his. Photos of his mother and father together, laughing, always laughing. Photos of the Marauders (Sirius, Remus, and James, at least; Pettigrew seemed to have been relegated to taking the photo, and for that Harry was immensely grateful). Memory upon memory, kept tucked away in boxes in the Dursley attic for ages. Memories that Petunia had been saving, for reasons she had never admitted to herself. Memories that she finally allowed herself to pass on to Harry.

Hermione was shaking her head, still trying to get around the enormity of it. She looked down to the figures in the photograph. They appeared to be waiting for something. “Perhaps…it’s not sinister,” she breathed, just loudly enough for Harry to hear. He smiled as she giggled softly at the Marauders in the photo. They were laughing now. She carefully placed the photo in her hand back in to the box, smiling crookedly as the figures waved good-bye to her. She stared at the photo box, apparently speechless. “It’s…” she managed, and then stopped. Then she was finally able to say, “I’m sorry about earlier, Harry. I just…I worry about you. And it seemed just too good to be true. But it is. It’s a treasure, Harry. Absolutely priceless.”

“I understand, Hermione. And…I like that you worry about me. I know I’ve been stupid at times, but I do appreciate it. And I know that it’s almost too good to be true. It’s just so…amazing. That’s why I had to share it with you.” Harry felt his cheeks grow warm and looked down. The photo Hermione had been holding caught his eye. In it, James, Sirius, and Remus were all giving him the thumbs up and mouthing at-a-boys to him, and Lily was clasping her hands to her chest melodramatically. Prats, he thought to himself, and then stuck his tongue out at them. They obligingly returned the affection.

He felt Hermione’s eyes on him and he sheepishly met her glance. To his great relief, she was grinning.

“This explains a great deal about you,” she said wryly.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up and he put on an injured look. “How so?”

She simply smiled and shook her head. She looked back into the box and pointed to another photo. “Harry…is this…?” She glanced at him, her eyes wide with curiosity and wonder.

He smiled and pulled out the photo. It was a photo of him and Aunt Petunia. A recent photo of them at that, taken by none other than Mrs. Figg, the Dursleys neighbour and ersatz guardian to Harry. He had been afraid that Mrs. Figg, despite being a Squibb, would have no idea of how to work a Muggle camera, but she somehow managed it. And so, the last afternoon before he was to depart for Hogwarts, he and Aunt Petunia had posed in front of Number Four, Privet Drive. He wished that it were an enchanted photo. He wanted to see her laugh, see himself laugh, as they nervously stood, waiting for Mrs. Figg to take the snap. ”Honestly, Arabella, shall I show you again?” he could hear his aunt say. There was the look on his aunt’s face when he suggested that they use a wizard’s camera and her giggles when she realized that he was only having her on. The feeling he had inside at being able to make her laugh. Not just making her laugh, his mother’s sister, his aunt laugh, but at finally, after so long, being allowed to be himself. Her being allowed to laugh at him. Her rustling his unruly hair and hugging him just as Mrs. Figg finally worked out the camera. But he could remember it. He could remember it quite clearly, and the proof that it was not a dream was in his hands: he and his Aunt Petunia, standing together on a crisp autumn afternoon, warmly embracing, smiling. Happy.

“It’s wonderful,” he heard Hermione say softly.

“It is,” he said simply.

“Are you…are you going to go back? After graduation?”

“I honestly don’t know.” He shrugged, and then carefully put the photo back into the box, next to the one of the Marauders, who all looked over to the smiling Harry and Petunia. He almost swore that his father and mother clasped hands and looked to one another. He shook his head. Enchanted photos could only do so much, and the photo had been taken while they were at school, so…he was being silly and sentimental. He reluctantly replaced the box lid and went about tucking it into the backpack. “Despite what’s happened between me and Aunt Petunia, there is still Uncle Vernon and Dudley, so I doubt that I will be welcomed by those two. Perhaps Aunt Petunia and I can still visit, outside of the house, or when Uncle Vernon’s at work and Dudley is wherever Dudley goes.” Harry made a face. “D’you think he’d get into university?”

Hermione appeared aghast. “Ah, not that I would ever want to speak ill of your family, Harry…”

“It’s all right.”

“Dudley is as thick as they come, perhaps thicker than Crabbe and Goyle combined.”

Harry fell against the seat, laughing. “Oh, gods, but you are brilliant,” he chuckled.

Hermione blushed a bright red and shook her head. “No, that was terrible,” she laughed. “That was so rude of me!”

“But it’s true!” he laughed. They both laughed a while in the compartment, their eyes wet with tears, cheeks red with mirth. It was good to have a laugh like this, Harry thought, especially so when it came at Dudley’s expense. Good laughs had been few and far between since the second war had started.

As their laughter died down, Hermione’s eyes were drawn to the window by the movement outside. It was then that she spied his wand. “Honestly, Harry, you must start taking better care of your wand!”

“How’s that?” He was a bit startled by her remark and glanced down at the windowsill to the article itself.

She wiped the tears from her eyes with one hand and pointed at his wand with the other, visibly unhappy and more than a little taken aback at the appearance of it. “You really ought to get yourself a wand care kit. It’s in a poor state.” She sounded disappointed in Harry not taking care of his wand. He had to acknowledge that he took more care and concern for his Firebolt than he did for his wand.

He looked his wand over. The wand did look terribly old, he realized. It was slightly scuffed, and scratched here and there along the body. The lighting in the compartment highlighted the wood grain; broad swirls of amber mixed with weaving stripes of a rich, dark brown. The wand was approximately the same thickness as…well, as a large marker, about a centimetre and a half in width, and it spanned nearly a foot in length. At its thickest point, the wand was adorned with an ornately detailed handle. The colour of the handle was a different tone than the wand’s shaft, muted in hue, more golden than warm amber. The wood had been carved (or enchanted, he corrected himself) into a design resembling the bark of a tree. Harry guessed that it was meant to look like holly bark. Without his glasses on, the pattern could almost be an abstract representation of a feather, he thought. Mr. Ollivander had told him that the wand contained the essence of phoenix feather, and Professor Dumbledore had confirmed that the wand indeed carried a feather from Fawkes, his pet phoenix. It would make sense then that perhaps the pattern was indeed a depiction of a feather. Or it could have been that the wand was just very old and the handle very worn, so much so that the design was no longer clear. He had not taken very good care of it he was reluctant to admit.

The handle comprised almost a third of the body of the wand. The main shaft of the instrument seemed to have grown from the handle, tapering to a slender point roughly half a foot away from the handle, possibly a bit further than a half-foot.

“With some care, it would be quite a striking wand, Harry,” said Hermione. She proudly withdrew her own wand from her robes and showed it to him. “Do you see how nice the wood looks when it’s been polished?” She had asked the question straightforwardly. Harry knew that she had no intention of it being a slight. He took no offence and simply nodded. “Of course, my wand is made up of two different types of woods so it looks different from yours. I think that yours is just made of holly, correct?” Harry could tell that Hermione knew his wand was indeed made of holly.

Harry again nodded gamely, indulging her. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Hmm. I thought as much.” He smiled when she said that. It was as he thought. She knew the answer. It wasn’t as though she was showing off; she wanted to know if he knew what his wand was made of. “That is a good wood for dream magic, but it’s really valued for its protection qualities. It’s the strongest of the protection woods. My old wand was holly and ebony. My wand now is made of vine wood.” Harry was embarrassed that he had not noticed a change in Hermione’s wands. After the many times that she had mended his glasses, he ought to have noticed. He looked down at her wand. The handle was about the same length as the handle on his wand. It was much more elegant in design, however. The body of the wand was sleek and in a soft greenish-beige colour, and was decorated by a scrolling, leafy ivy vines. The wand extended more or less twelve or so inches from the base until it narrowed into a gentle point. It was an elegant wand, clean in design and well tended to. Hermione was very pleased at the condition of her wand; she was proud in the care she took in it. Harry, conversely, was feeling a bit abashed at the state of his, and wondered how he had gone for so long without noticing how tatty it had become.

A loud banging on the compartment door distracted him from his embarrassment. “Hermione! Harry! Are you in there?” It was a familiar voice, a young woman’s voice.

“Yes, we’re here,” Hermione called out. The door flung open and a panic-stricken Ginny Weasley ran into the room. Both Hermione and Harry were instantly on their feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Ginny said breathlessly, slowly blushing.

Harry shook his head violently. He knew what the flush creeping onto her cheeks meant and wanted to dispel the thought as soon as possible. He just didn’t need that, not right now. “We were just talking, Ginny. What’s happening?”

“It’s Ron. You’ve got to come with me.” At that, she turned and ran out of the compartment. Hermione and Harry followed suit.

“What’s happened to Ron?” asked Harry as they hurried down the narrow passage.

Ginny managed only one word. “Malfoy.”

Harry cast a cautionary glance to Hermione as he grit his teeth together in a grimace. “Damn him,” he muttered under his breath. If Draco had done anything to harm Ron…he’d have his life for it.

They soon found where the commotion was. A group of students were bottlenecking the narrow train passage. In front of them, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione saw a group of Gryffindor students. On the other side of the robed mass were a group of Slytherin students.

In between they could just see the top of one red head of mussed hair and one blonde head of slicked back hair.

Grunts and shouts were coming from the tangle. “Oof, geroff!”

“Stop it, Weasley!” There was the sound of shuffling.

“Make me, Malfoy!” There was the sound of a muffled thump.

“You’re a disgrace, just like your father and your brothers! OWW!” Ron had stomped on Malfoy’s foot.

“You ought to know about disgraces, Malfoy – say, how’s your dad taking to Azkaban?” With that, Malfoy put Ron into a headlock. “ARGH!”

“SHUT UP ABOUT MY FATHER!”

“ENOUGH!” roared Harry. He withdrew his wand from his robes. The students immediately parted, flinging themselves against the sides of the passage, into the adjoining compartments, to the floor – anywhere to get out of the way of Harry’s wand. “Separatus!” he shouted, pointing his wand at Ron and Draco.

There was a brief flash and then the two prefects were torn away from one another, Ron being flung to the floor in front of Harry and Malfoy being thrown into his Slytherin goons Crabbe and Goyle.

Harry reached down with his free hand and helped Ron to his feet. “Sorry about that, Ron.”

Ron shook his head and gasped for air. “S’awright, Harry. S’pose that’s the quickest way to end a fight, eh?”

Malfoy pulled himself away from Crabbe and Goyle and stalked over to Harry. “What in the hell was that, Potter?” he snapped. “How dare you attack a prefect? I’ll have you expelled.”

“Go ahead and try,” he told him in a low voice. Harry still had his wand pointed at Draco. He turned slightly, showing Malfoy his Gryffindor prefect badge. “I doubt that Headmaster Dumbledore will take kindly to your attacking another prefect, Malfoy.”

The sight of the badge kept Malfoy from arguing the charge. His eyes widened at the sign of the pin, but he quickly recovered himself. “What a farce,” he sneered. “Potter a prefect. Hogwarts has never stooped so low.”

“I don’t know. I think this makes up for naming you prefect, Malfoy.” Hermione stepped forward, levelling a glare at him. Malfoy threw back his head and snorted in amusement, his Slytherin cronies following suit.

“That’s ironic, coming from Mudblood rubbish,” he cackled. “It’s an embarrassment to Hogwarts, naming you Head Girl.” He pronounced the title with a sneer. Hermione moved closer to him, her hands balled into fists. Harry could not help but to grin as Malfoy took a step back in alarm. “Don’t,” Malfoy said in an unsteady voice.

“Don’t what, Malfoy? Afraid that I’ll thump you on the nose again? Don’t worry; I wouldn’t want to touch you. It’s bad enough that I have to look at a vicious little cockroach like you.”

“That is detestable behaviour for a Head Girl,” spoke a wheedling voice. Harry saw Hermione cock her head toward the source. Pansy Parkinson stepped out from behind Malfoy, just enough to show her prefect’s badge. She casually draped an arm over his shoulder. “It’s an embarrassment indeed. One should think that a Head Girl ought to exercise a bit more control than that, be a bit…better behaved. I suppose it’s the result of being a Mudblood.” Parkinson twisted her face into a moue of disgust. “Garbage blood begets garbage blood.”

Harry watched as Hermione’s face went uncharacteristically blank. She slowly raised her wand hand toward Parkinson. It was then that he felt a stab of panic in his heart: she’s really going to do it. She’s going to hex Parkinson into oblivion.

Ron saved Harry from a difficult decision as he put himself between Hermione and Malfoy and folded his arms. “You and your goons clear off, Malfoy. Now.” Hermione’s face regained its usual bearing and she lowered her wand.

The blonde moved within inches of Weasley. Both Harry and Hermione stood shoulder to shoulder with their friend, facing off with Malfoy. Harry still had his wand trained on the Slytherin. “What’ll you do if I don’t, Weasley? I’m a prefect. You can’t do anything to me.”

“We can,” Harry began coolly, “and we will.” He tapped his wand at Malfoy, a look of daring on his face, daring the other boy to make a move against them.

Despite his better judgement, he was actually itching for a fight with Malfoy. He wasn’t as worried about the first years now as the corridor was filled with members of Dumbledore’s Army.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at the wand, and then flicked a smirk at Harry. “All right then, Potter. I’m sick and tired of having to hear you lot anyways. A Mudblood, a pauper, and half a wizard. What a mockery.” Harry put a restraining arm in front of Ron as Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins walked away, snickering amongst them.

The Gryffindors started to separate, going back to their respective compartments; some casting wary glances at the trio, others giving them smiles of appreciation. Harry noticed that the blind on the compartment in front of them parted slightly. Though he couldn’t see who was in the compartment, he could tell that it was more than one person. He heard some muffled talking, punctuated by a “That was right wicked” and then an “oof” as the speaker was silenced.

Harry hid a grin and slid his wand back into his robe’s pocket. At least he wasn’t the only one to enjoy the confrontation. He turned and walked down the corridor with Ron and Hermione. “I really thought that you were going to hex Pansy into next week,” he said to her. “With the look on your face…”

“I was close to doing just that,” Hermione sighed with a smile, “until Ronald stepped between us.”

Ron was aghast. He threw his hands into the air and gawked at Hermione in disappointment. “Aw, Hermione, why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have got in the way then.”

Hermione laughed and nudged Ron in the arm. “You saved me from being expelled!”

“Bloody hell, woman, that would have been worth expulsion!”

Harry laughed at them both and shook his head. “So much for this year being normal,” he grinned.

“Are you kidding? This year will be fantastic,” Ron grinned, his clothes still askew from his wrestling match with Malfoy. He patted Harry on the back as they continued down the passage. “That was brilliant. And, your being a prefect will make this year our best at Hogwarts.”

“Of course it will, Ronald,” smirked Hermione, “as it is our last year at Hogwarts.” Ron clucked his tongue and shook his head.

“No rest,” he said to the roof of the train car. “She gives me no rest.

Harry laughed and thumped his friend on the back. “You know, I think you might be right, Ron. This might be our best year at Hogwarts.”

∞

Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Additional disclaimers may be found in Chapter One, “Circumradiant Dawn”.

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...right, then. Ah, yes, if you should have an H/Hr aversion, please know that this fic is H/Hr. It will be mostly fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though you may not initially think so. Yes, I know, there hasn’t been much promise of fluff, but I think there has been at least one “squee” moment. Well, now that you’ve been sufficiently warned about the spoilers and whatnot...

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: Another nod to RONIN10 for the review of “Number Ninety-Three, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes” and my thanks to all of those who have read this far. Again, this is my first piece of Harry Potter fan fiction. My previous still stands, gentle reader: this is a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. Therefore it will feel at times that events are moving slowly. Though alluded to in the early chapters, with a smattering of squee moments, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. There are plenty of MacGuffins, red herrings, whatever you would like to call them, sprinkled throughout as well, so if you aren't one to put up with all of that, sadly, this fic mightn't be for you...

That said, let’s get into it, shall we?

__________________________________________________________________________

HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER THREE: ADVANCED MUGGLE STUDIES

__________________________________________________________________________

“Bloody hell. We’ve already been through this.” He scrunched his nose in a look meant to be distaste.

Hermione signed theatrically and shook her head. “Honestly, Ron, you are given to such drama.” Ron rolled his eyes at Harry when she said that. “This is a required class. And you should start setting a better example as a prefect, Ron. It’s our last year at Hogwarts. Anyways, your brother supported it, not to mention your father. Wasn’t this in his area of expertise at the Ministry?”

Ron shot a glance at her and rolled his eyes again. “He was in the Office of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, not Advanced Muggle Bloody Studies That My Handsome and Daring Son Ron Shall Be Bloody Stuck In.” He sighed. “And Perce…is not someone I care to speak about.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Ron started again on his invective. “Really…Advanced Muggle Bloody Studies. I just don’t see the point in it. I mean, we’ve been through the first Muggle Studies class, as if that really taught us anything, and besides, you’ve got first hand experience, Hermione, and so does Harry. Don’t you, Harry?”

Harry grinned and nodded. “I’ll say I’ve had experience. Ask me anything about Muggles, Ron. Anything at all. I’ll wager I could get through this class without studying for a single exam.” He winked at an exasperated Hermione.

“If the subject is right wretched Muggles like your aunt and uncle, you will have no problem whatsoever.”

At that, Hermione practically stamped her feet in frustration, in part due to Ron’s nonchalant attitude and in part to the fact that Harry’s aunt was no longer wretched, not in the least. “Honestly, the two of you need to start taking your studies seriously. Advanced Muggle Studies is an important part of the new curriculum as a N.E.W.T. level class. If you don’t pay attention you’ll be left behind and wind up being a twentieth year student.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” grinned Harry once more.

Hermione heaved a vehement sigh and shook her head again, her curly hair moving about wildly.

Ron shook his head as well. “What’s it going to be about? Advanced Muggle Bloody Studies.”

“That is the fifth time you’ve said ‘bloody’,” Hermione muttered darkly.

“I don’t see any bloody use to bloody Advanced Bloody Muggle Studies,” Ron proclaimed, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Harry had to bite his lip to keep from sniggering. As much as it annoyed her, it did amuse Harry, on some level, to see Ron wind her up.

But Hermione wasn’t quite having it today. “Perhaps, but I am certain you could have used this class prior to our trip to London, Ronald,” came her sardonic reply.

Ron’s eyes bulged at that and Harry had to swallow down a laugh. “She, ah, has a point, mate,” he said weakly.

Ron’s eyes bulged again as he threw a nasty glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hermione snorted and folded her arms in front of her. “Must I really go over everything that happened in that bookshop, Ronald? First there was the theft prevention system…”

“How in the bloody hell was I supposed to know what that was? Flourish and Blotts’ doesn’t need anything like that. What is it with Muggles? Besides, it’s not my fault that the thing decided to…go off.”

“That’s as maybe, Ronald, but you didn’t have to try to hex it!”

“I didn’t try! If I had tried, it would have turned into a goat.” He pouted and Harry nearly had to eat his necktie to keep from laughing.

Hermione snorted again. “A goat. And whatever made you think of that? You might be seventeen, Ronald, but that doesn’t mean you can go around transfiguring anything that startles you.” Ron grumbled at this. Hermione took it as a sign to proceed and continued. “Then there was the matter of the books themselves.”

Harry practically had to shove the sleeve of his robe into his mouth to remain quiet. The memory alone was enough to set him to giggles; now, Hermione was threatening to relive the experience of Ronald Bilius Weasley in a London Muggle bookshop.

“What did I do wrong with the books?” Ron sounded quite innocent and confused.

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps it was the complaining, in a voice loud enough for the whole shop to hear, about how the pictures didn’t move? Or that the paper was all wrong because it wasn’t parchment and the ink wasn’t real ink? Or that they weren’t covered in leather and didn’t smell a hundred years old. Or that centuries’ worth of dust or a moth or two didn’t fly out when you opened one. Or that the books didn’t chase you round the shop? Or that this one would be good for beating Cornish pixies with, or that one would make an excellent quaffle if it were transfigured just right, or why didn’t they have anything in the Sporting section about Quidditch? Since when have you been a bibliophile?”

“All right, all right. You don’t have to call me names,” Ron scowled and stared directly ahead.

“Bibliophile means book lover.”

He rolled his eyes, and Harry thought he would collapse from the efforts to remain silent, either that or literally eat one of his shoes. “I know, Hermione, I am not thick.”

As much as Harry loved watching Ron wind Hermione up, he loved watching her return the favour even more. She continued with her performance, unaffected by Ron’s comments. “And I should hate to bring up what happened with the self-service in the café…”

“I SAID, ALL RIGHT,” he bit off through clenched teeth. Tipping the wink to Harry to show that she hadn’t really provoked him, Ron decided to continue on his rant. “You know, Hermione, when we were in plain old Muggle Bloody Studies, all we got to learn about is how Muggles lift heavy objects without magic. What’s so important about that? I mean, your parents do that all of the time. Even my parents do it and all they’d have to do is wave a wand if they really wanted to shift something. I can’t say that Harry’s aunt and uncle have ever lifted anything. Maybe his uncle, but it was nothing more than a crème cake, I’d reckon.”

Harry started laughing as Hermione shook her head yet again, too disgusted to utter a reply and marched ahead of them down the corridor. Ron shot a grin of his own at Harry as they continued to the Great Hall.

“That was too easy,” the redhead chuckled in low voice.

Harry agreed with him. “That was a bit too easy.” Their last year at Hogwarts had started and, although they were all older, little seemed to have changed. Even though this was their last year at the school, even though the wizard war was engaged, even though his aunt had done an abrupt about face and had told him that she loved him and that his parents would be proud of him, it was all quite normal – and Harry found that to be immensely reassuring. It would be an ordinary year. Their last year at Hogwarts would be normal. “You know, it’s just like we never left,” he grinned.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Melora Emilie Lilasmorte. That was her name. She was Hogwarts’ new Advanced Muggle Studies teacher. Moreover, she was a Ravenclaw. In the history of the school, never before had a Ravenclaw taught even the regular Muggle Studies class. Usually a Gryffindor taught the class, or even a Hufflepuff, but never a Ravenclaw before. Certainly never a Slytherin, but that really went without stating. Rumours were circulating around their new professor already, and the first Advanced Muggle Studies class of the year had yet to sit.

Harry and his friends walked into the Great Hall and sat down at the Gryffindor table with his roommates Seamus Finnegan, Neville Longbottom, and Dean Thomas.

“Have you heard about the new prof?” Seamus asked in a stage whisper. Ron and Harry nodded while Hermione simply rolled her eyes. Seamus made a face at her and stuck out his tongue. She rolled her eyes again. “Right then, so, spill it, what is there to know about her?”

Harry shrugged. “Well…I don’t know, really. We’ve only heard that she is teaching Advanced Muggle Studies and that she’s a Ravenclaw.”

“Yeah,” started Dean, “the first one in the history of Hogwarts to teach any kind of Muggle Studies class.”

“Is she nice?” wondered Neville. He appeared to be quite sincere in his questioning. For a moment, Harry envied him. Despite everything that had happened in his life, Neville still had a sweetness and innocence to him.

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry and mouthed, “Is he kidding?”

Seamus leaned forward and offered, in conspiratorial tones, “I imagine that she might be all right. I’ve heard that she is a pretty serious teacher, though, so we might be getting quizzed. Often. On real topics. Witness the booklist. Jung? Freud? Skinner? Maslow? You could only get these books from Flourish and Blott’s as a special order or go to a Muggle bookstore.”

Ron traded glances with Hermione. “Do not start,” he mouthed to her. She merely arched an eyebrow.

“Well, I think she will be nice,” offered Neville. He folded his arms and pursed his lips. “On the booklist she had noted that any student who wasn’t able to get a hold of those books would be taken care of the first week of class.” He nodded sagely. “I think that makes her nice.”

Seamus shrugged noncommittally while Ron simply blinked. Nonplussed, Seamus continued. “This looks to be a real class, with real subjects, none of the ‘lift with your back’ rubbish they taught us in Muggles 101. This is serious.” This elicited groans from the group, with the exception of Hermione.

She turned up her nose and snorted. “You lot are incredibly melodramatic. Afraid of a quiz or two and some new books. And your information is woefully lacking on our newest teacher.” Hermione leaned in close and the boys followed suit. “She is pretty young for a professor. I mean she is fairly close in age to us, so she hasn’t been away from Hogwarts long. Maybe eleven years at most – my guess is that she’s barely ten years older than us. The thing of it is she already has many years worth of experience in spite of being a recent graduate. Practical experience at that.” Her last statement caused some eyes to widen. Apparently satisfied, Hermione continued. “Allegedly, she’s defeated several monsters and a dark sorcerer.” She placed emphasis on the word ‘and’. “From what I’ve heard, she is a well-travelled and well-practised witch. Matter of fact, I heard that she was originally at the top of the list to teach us how to defend ourselves against the Dark Arts, but Auct Plum won the job.”

“She was up for Dark Arts?” wondered Harry. Hermione always seemed to know everything. She was an absolute marvel. He did not doubt that there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do...or, at least, read up on and then learn to do. She had always amazed him like that.

Hermione noticed Harry’s gaze. She glanced and him and then glanced away again, quickly. Harry thought that she even turned a little pink. He felt his face flush and focused back on the conversation. That little exchange was most peculiar…

Longbottom voiced Harry’s previous thought to the group. “How does Hermione know everything?” he wondered, shaking his head. Seamus and Dean looked to one another and then shrugged. Harry had to grin. Most who knew Hermione simply accepted her omniscience after a while.

“A woman teaching DADA?” Ron perked up at the latter part of her report.

This immediately caught the ire of Miss Granger. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron blinked, realizing what he had said and to whom. “Well, Hermione, it’s just that –“

“Yes?”

Weasley fidgeted in his seat, his blue eyes wide. He shot a look at Harry, one that begged for help, but Harry just shrugged at him by way of apology. He, Seamus, and Dean all concealed snickers while Neville cringed sympathetically. “Well…Umbridge was totally useless. And it’s just that...I don’t think...I don’t think that a woman’s ever properly taught that class before.”

“Just because Umbridge was a sociopath and a waste of a witch, you don’t think that a woman would be capable of teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts? That is your problem, Ronald Weasley, you don’t think.”

Ron opened his mouth to issue a rebuttal, but was immediately shushed by Finnegan. “Oi, shh, Ron, here she is.”

All turned to face the dais.

The professors entered into the Great Hall in a long procession, moving towards the tables lining the dais and standing behind their designated seats. Leading them in was Professor Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Immediately following him was Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Teacher, and head of the House of Gryffindor; Professor Filius Flitwick - Charms Master and head of Ravenclaw; Professor Severus Snape, the head of Slytherin and the Potions Master; Professor Pomona Sprout, the head of Hufflepuff House and Herbology Teacher; then, to the utter shock of Ron and Ginny Weasley, whose jaws literally dropped, Professor Arthur Weasley, their new Muggle Studies teacher; next to him, Professor Melora Lilasmorte, the new Advanced Muggle Studies teacher; Professor Edmund Paisot, the new Ancient Runes teacher; Professor Petr “Plum” Auct, their new Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher (or DADA, as the students took to calling it); Firenze – resident centaur and Divinations Teacher; Professor Sibyll P. Trelawney, their former Divinations Teacher, who was now the Mystic Musings and Meditations teacher (not to the surprise of the older students – they were of the collective opinion that Professor Trelawney’s classes were always trance conjuring, if not downright coma inducing); Mr. Argus Filch – the Caretaker; Professor Rubeus Hagrid, their Care of Magical Creatures Teacher and Gamekeeper; Professor Binns - History of Magic Teacher (still dead, still teaching class, and still did unaware of the fact that he was dead); Professor Sinistra – the Astronomy Teacher; Professor Vector – the Arithmancy Teacher; Madame Hooch – the Flying Instructor and Quidditch Referee; Madame Irma Pince – the Librarian; and Madame Poppy Pomfrey – the Nurse and chief of the Hospital Wing, and the rest of the Hogwarts faculty.

Professor Dumbledore made his way to the lectern and waved at the students, motioning for the first years to enter the hall and for the older students to take their seats. The instructors followed suit as the Great Hall fell silent. “Welcome, students,” he began, “welcome to another year at Hogwarts. I trust that you had all had a restful and uneventful time away from us.” Dumbledore paused and quickly scanned the assembly. To Harry, it seemed as if Dumbledore were taking inventory, checking to see if any had been lost to the war that was raging in the wizarding community. Looking satisfied with the results, Dumbledore continued. “Now, before we start the Sorting Ceremony and the Feast, we have a few start of term announcements. For our first years, please note that the Forbidden Forest is strictly prohibited to all students, and when I say all students, this includes those who went wandering about despite this warning during their first, second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth years at Hogwarts.” Dumbledore threw a glance at Harry, Hermione, and Ron over the top of his glasses. All three visibly cringed and slunk in their seats while their friends snickered mercilessly. Dumbledore pursed his lips, tipped Harry a teasing wink, and continued. “For our first years and old hats, please note that portions of the sixth floor are now open to students. Please refrain from entering the still restricted areas of the sixth floor.” Filch took the opportunity to scowl at the students. “That said, while you older students have been away from our fine halls, some changes have occurred.” Dumbledore motioned toward the dais. “Firstly, as I am sure you have all heard by now, we have added a new class to our curriculum. Advanced Muggle Studies. Yes, yes, it is a N.E.W.T. class. Rest assured that, in light of recent events, all of you seventh years will be learning a great deal about the non-magic world in preparation for your graduation.” At this Professor Dumbledore again surveyed the amassed students before carrying on. “However, lest I forget, for our original Muggle Studies class we have a new yet familiar professor. It is my honour and pleasure to introduce to you the former head of the Office of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts in the Ministry of Magic, esteemed Gryffindor, and now Hogwarts professor, Arthur Weasley.”

Mr. – Professor Weasley, Harry knew that he would have a rough time remembering that in the halls – Professor Weasley stood and nodded in appreciation as all of the Gryffindors, most of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and a decent number of Slytherin applauded him. The loudest cheers came from Harry and his friends, led by Ron and Ginny. The two redheads climbed atop the table and whistled and cheered and clapped for their father. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US?” Ron managed to roar above the approving din. Professor Weasley blushed and looked appropriately apologetic. Ron then turned to his sister. “Did you know?” he shouted to her. She shook her head violently, so Ron glared down at Hermione. “YOU KNEW, DIDN’T YOU?” he yelled above the applause. Hermione shrugged, then grinned, and then stuck her tongue out at Ron, who roared with laughter. Ginny squealed loudly and clapped in appreciation. Harry simply shook his head, wondering how it was that Hermione knew and that no one else in Hogwarts had let on to Ron or Ginny, or to him, even. Professor Weasley finally waved the students to silence, Ron and Ginny receiving hand shakes and claps on the back as the celebration wound down.

Headmaster Dumbledore, smiling broadly, walked over to shake Professor Weasley’s hand, and then returned to the lectern. “Now, I am sure that with our next announcement, you older students will remember our former Divinations professor. It is my pleasure to inform you that Professor Trelawney has been gracious in accepting the Mystic Musings and Meditations position.”

Professor Trelawney, garbed in flowing and mismatched paisley and voile garments (or, as Ron whispered to Harry, still flush with the surprise of his father being named a professor, “I see she’s still dressed as one of those hippies you told me about”), and still wearing her impossibly thick eyeglasses, stood and flourished a ring-adorned hand at the students, her bangles and bracelets tinkling.

Dumbledore nodded at her and continued. “Also, we have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I should like for you to welcome Professor Petr Auct.”

Professor Auct stood up and bowed stiffly at the waist. He was dressed in a rather dapper manner. Auct wore a cream-coloured three-piece suit, the waistcoat being darker, almost camel in tone, a pressed white dress shirt, and a golden tie. He also wore a dark gold cape with red silk lining – the colours a mark of his being a Gryffindor. He was very pale, nearly as pale as Professor Snape. A distinguishing feature of Auct was a shock of unruly white hair. It stuck out at all angles, almost in an attempt to get away from his head. Harry idly wondered if that was what his own hair would look like when he was…whatever age Auct was. The professor’s eyes, which were a very bright shade of purple, surveyed the Great Hall. His gaze came to rest on a group at the Gryffindor table.

The amethyst gaze caused Ron to squirm in his seat. He made a strange squelching noise, the one that he usually reserved for spiders and the like. Neville looked down at the table’s surface while Seamus focused his sole attention on Dumbledore. Dean managed to occupy himself with the hem of his robes. Even Hermione was unable to meet Auct’s gaze, looking instead at her hands. The only one in the group to return the stare was Harry.

Auct’s purple eyes blinked at Harry, and then, much to Harry’s utter astonishment, Auct winked, and then the Dark Arts professor returned to his seat. Once he turned away from them, Ron visibly deflated.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” he whispered. “Purple eyes? Now I know why they call him ‘Plum’.”

“Indeed,” Harry murmured in distraction. His eyes danced around the Great Hall, his focus elsewhere. The past two months were almost too much for him to digest. Why had Dumbledore and then Auct winked at him? What was happening to everyone? Dumbledore he could understand; the man had a prankster’s streak that made the Weasley twins look like acolytes. But Auct? Harry felt a strange tugging at his memory. It was as though there was something important that he had forgotten, and he had stumbled across something strong enough to remind him that he had forgotten something – it just wasn’t strong enough to tell him what he’d forgotten. It was a disconcerting sensation.

The sound of Dumbledore’s voice brought him back to the Great Hall. “And, as Professor Agein has decided to retire, we have a new Ancient Runes teacher. Please welcome Professor Edmund Paisot.”

Professor Paisot gawkily stood from his seat, almost toppling his chair in the process. He appeared to be incredibly anxious. His dark eyes compulsively roamed the Hall, almost as if he were expecting something to happen. Something terrible. His long, pale fingers tapped nervously on the tabletop. In his appearance, down to his manner of dress, he was the opposite of Professor Auct. Paisot was dressed in a rumpled two-piece suit in a dark grey. To the outfit’s credit, the jacket was less rumpled looking than the trousers, but not by much. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top and one side of it was hanging over his belt. He wore a dark paisley tie that hung loosely around his neck and was also squared off unevenly. He also wore dark robes, black with a dark green lining. Paisot was a Slytherin, and probably not the pride of Slytherin House, Harry thought with some amusement. The professor was very pale as well, paler than Auct. He wore eyeglasses; old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses that looked as through they were about to slide off of his thin nose. While Auct’s white hair was wild and untidy, Paisot’s jet-black hair was trim and neat. The contrast was rather marked between the two new professors. Paisot looked to be the approximation of one of Hermione’s “twentieth year” students.

Once Paisot managed to seat himself without tipping his chair over, Dumbledore proceeded with completing the introductions. “And I should also like to introduce you all to our new Advanced Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Melora Lilasmorte,” Dumbledore continued.

The Gryffindor group took the opportunity to size up the teacher as she stood to greet them. She was dressed primarily in black, which wasn’t at all unusual for Hogwarts. She wore a floor-length fitted coat, fastened at the waist. The length and the fabric gave the illusion that she was wearing a dress. Beneath the coat she wore long black trousers, a high-collared white shirt, and a black waistcoat. She also wore black suede or velvet gloves. She had on few pieces of jewellery, a faint feminine touch against the (for the most part) masculine attire. Her dark hair was pulled back, and instead of the traditional pointed hat, she wore a black top hat with a black voile band and bow. It reminded Harry of an Edwardian undertaker’s hat. Professor Lilasmorte was pale, paler even than Auct, Paisot, or Snape, which did not seem possible. She somehow managed the feat of looking young and old at the same time – there was something elusive about her, something that intrigued Harry. She also wore glasses, rectangular shaped glasses with a silver-toned frame and yellow tinted lenses. Potter liked that she wore glasses. He felt as thought it gave him something in common with her. For some reason, that struck him as being important.

Lilasmorte stood away from her place at the table and tilted her head at the students in acknowledgement. She looked over the students filling the Great Hall, briefly resting on Draco Malfoy, causing him to shift in his seat uncomfortably. He turned away from her and briefly made eye contact with Harry. The Slytherin arched an eyebrow and sneered. That was an improvement on Malfoy’s part, but feeling a bit churlish, Harry returned the favour by blowing a mock kiss at him. This caused the other boy’s eyes to widen in alarm and he immediately turned his back on Potter. Harry suppressed a chuckle at his little success.

As if she had noticed, Lilasmorte’s attentions finally came to rest on Harry and his friends.

Hermione heard Harry make a noise. To her, it sounded like a suppressed gasp. She turned and frowned at him. “Harry, are you feeling all right?” she whispered.

His face paled. “I – I think…” Lilasmorte’s eyes locked onto his and Harry found himself at a loss for words. Grey. Silver. Her eyes were grey; he could see that over the tops of her glasses. Her glasses had silver frames. Grey eyes. Pale grey eyes. That was all that Harry could see. Grey and silver. Grey…

Hermione stared at him for a moment. As she stared, Harry was dimly aware of the fact that he wasn’t blinking. Was he being bewitched, right here in the Great Hall, in front of everyone? In front of Dumbledore? He saw Hermione turn in her seat to glare at the source, wordlessly questioning the woman staring at him. Lilasmorte transferred her gaze from Potter to Granger. The teacher gave a brief nod to Hermione as she took her seat next to Snape.

Snape flashed an enquiring glance at Lilasmorte and then stared at the Gryffindor table, his dark eyes scrutinizing the group with suspicion. Hermione disrespectfully arched an eyebrow at him and turned to tend to Harry.

“Harry, what was that? Are you all right? Was she casting some sort of enchantment?”

Some of the colour had returned to his cheeks and he was blinking again, rapidly now. “No. Not exactly. I think. Yes…I am. I mean, I think so.” Harry was shaken by the experience and looked it. “I’m not sure what that was, Hermione.”

Ron had taken note and was cautiously monitoring Lilasmorte from the side of his eye. “I think she was bewitching you, Harry. She wasn’t blinking.”

“Harry, neither were you,” Hermione added.

He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I had hoped that this year would be normal,” he said softly. “I thought that it might be.” He stared at his glasses as they sat in the palm of his hand. He tilted them so that they reflected the candles suspended in midair above them, a twinkling of light on the glass. “It got off to such a good start…I had really hoped that it would be a normal year.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The remainder of the orientation, from the Sorting Ceremony through the Feast, happened without incident, though Harry had been careful to avoid looking at Professor Lilasmorte’s side of the dais. Hermione had been the one to keep a watch on her. She commented to Harry that Snape seemed to take a bit of an interest in the new teacher.

“He saw what she was doing.”

“But he didn’t do anything. Other than give us a dirty look,” Ron muttered.

Neville shook his head and nearly shuddered. “When isn’t he doing that?”

“Too right. He’s always got a nasty look on his face,” added Seamus. “Like one of George and Fred’s Ultra Dungbombs went off under his robes.”

Harry was still disoriented from his strange encounter with the new Ravenclaw teacher. He walked with them in silence, his head down, lost in thought. With all that was happening in the wizard and the Muggle world, Hogwarts seemed his one sanctuary. The one place where everything made sense. And now… The others moved on ahead of him, wrapped in conversation. Hermione took notice of Harry’s mood and fell back. Harry registered this and made it a point not to let on to Hermione that he knew what she was doing. As she slowed her pace, Ron looked over his shoulder to see where the two of them had gotten. Harry saw Hermione gave him a nod to continue on. He widened his eyes in concern, but she nodded at him again, and he acquiesced. Harry managed to observe the exchange without being noticed by either. He had honed this skill while living in the Dursley household, observing the proceedings without being noticed. The skill had saved him from verbal abuse and worse on many occasions.

He responded to her unspoken request to act as a diversion. “So, which of you knew my dad was going to be a prof here and didn’t tell me?” he demanded of the group as they moved further along the hall. “Bloody hell, we were even in my brothers’ joke shop and they didn’t breathe a word! C’mon, confess, which of you lot knew?” He quickened his pace and their friends followed suit, giving Hermione time to speak with Harry alone. She slowed her pace even more to match Potter’s, and walked along with him, at his elbow. “Harry,” she began in a soft voice. “Are you sure that you are feeling all right?”

Harry suddenly stopped walking and stood still, wordlessly staring at the stone floor.

“Harry?” said Hermione again. He could see that she experienced a flutter of panic. It showed itself plainly on her features. She had never before seen him so reserved, that much he was aware of.

He said at length, “I’ve forgotten something.”

She gave him a strange look. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve forgotten something.”

“What have you forgotten, Harry?” He could tell that she was slightly put off by his manner. But there was little he could do about it.

“That’s just it, Hermione. I don’t remember.” He paused. “But she does.”

He heard as her breath nearly caught in her throat. “That…woman did bewitch you. Right in front of the entire school, she bewitched you. Never mind the school; she did it right in front of Professor Dumbledore. How is that possible? Who is she, Harry? Tell me.”

He continued to stare at the floor. “She remembers what I’ve forgotten,” he replied cryptically. He didn’t know why he was being so evasive, but a part of him was enjoying it. The other part truly thought it to be true, that she knew something that he didn’t, something that he needed to know but had forgotten.

Hermione took Harry by the shoulders and shook him. “Harry, look at me.” He would only stare at the floor, a distant look on his face. She shook him harder. “Look at me,” she repeated. He merely blinked and sighed. Hermione took his face into her hands and made him meet her gaze. “What has she done to you?” she whispered.

It was then that Harry smiled at her. He knew that it was an unusual smile, but he was in a most unusual mood. It was almost…it was almost the kind of smile an adult would give to a child who had claimed to see Santa Claus. Yes, dear, of course you did, followed by a pat on the head. It was…condescending. He had never looked at Hermione in this way, so he understood that she was mildly dumbstruck by his reaction. He smiled, took her hands from his face, clasped them firmly, and said, “It will be quite all right, Hermione.” Then he kissed her on the cheek and walked away.

She was left in the hallway, stunned, unable to do little more than to watch him turn the corner and disappear into the school. He heard her voice faintly echo down the hallway. “Harry…what…what has she…done….”

∞

Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

The characters of Melora Lilasmorte, Petr Auct, Edmund Paisot, in addition to other original characters / members / creatures of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, the Ministry of Magic, and the Muggle world, as presented in the story published herein, are the creation of M.L. Stone under the Portkey author name of carondelet. This story was authored by M.L. Stone and posted at Portkey under the author name of carondelet. Any reproduction without the express written consent of the author is strictly prohibited.

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...right, then. Ah, yes, if you should have an H/Hr aversion, please know that this fic is H/Hr. It will be mostly fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though you may not initially think so. There have been a few “squee” moments, with more to come, I assure you. Now that we’ve gotten the warnings et al in the open…

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: Another thanks to RONIN10 for the review of “Advanced Muggle Studies”. I’ve yet to reply to your notes, but I shall. This is still my first and only piece of Harry Potter fan fiction. And yes, gentle reader, this remains a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. Therefore it will feel at times that events are moving slowly. Though hinted at in the early chapters, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. MacGuffins are to be found, so if you aren't one to put up with all of that, you might want to consider reading one of several of the fine works posted at Portkey.

Though this is not my favourite chapter, as it’s been cleaved into one piece from bits of the preceding and the proceeding chapters, I am posting it nonetheless. There are parts that are okay and there are parts that are weak, but ever so often you get to the point where you just can’t stare at the words any longer. Being a Frankenstein chapter, it’s not too bad. Just not one that I particularly care for.

With the preamble out of the way, it’s time to carry on.

__________________________________________________________________________

HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER FOUR: YESTERDAY, TOMORROW

__________________________________________________________________________

Harry walked the grounds for sometime, moving from floor to floor of the school, walking to the Quidditch pitch, to the lake, wandering the area in general. Seventh years had the most liberties of any of the students, and as he was now a seventh year and a prefect, he was taking full advantage. Regardless of his status, he really didn’t care if he did get into trouble for being outside the castle at night. After what had happened during Announcements, he felt as though he didn’t care about anything.

I can’t stop thinking, but I can’t remember what it is that I’ve thought about. I don’t know why that’s so bothersome to me now, but it is. It’s not as though this hasn’t happened before, especially in class. I know my brain is working, and that I’m full of thoughts and emotions, but it’s as though my body isn’t listening to any of it and is just moving of its own accord. I’ve no idea of where I am going or why…and I don’t really care, either. I just don’t. I recognise that I should, but I just…don’t. What in the hell is my problem?

Before long, Harry found himself at Hagrid’s home. He stood before it, staring, for what could have been ages. At one point he idly considered going inside to have a cup of tea with Hagrid, perhaps one of his scones, the ones that could double as doorstops. Then he decided against it and continued on his pointless amble. When Harry came out of his reverie, he had since strayed past the edge of the Forbidden Forest, past the Whomping Willow, and was at the covered bridge leading to the school.

The moon was full and bright and the sky above was quite clear. He stood on the bridge, leaned against the wooden railing, and watched the wisps of fog move along the ridge below. The last time he had stood on that bridge was with Lupin. He was stunned to realize that he had not stood on the bridge like this since that time. He had been back and forth across that bridge many times, but hadn’t paused even once. Not since Lupin taught at Hogwarts. It was back then that Lupin told him about his father and his mother. About being in Hogwarts together. Harry became conscious of how much he missed Lupin at Hogwarts. It was all well and good that Lupin was in the Order, but Hogwarts still didn’t seem quite right without him. He had been a fine teacher and a good friend. Harry wished that Lupin could come back as the DADA teacher, no offence to the winking Auct Plum. Even more so, at that very moment, he wished that Lupin were simply at Hogwarts. Merely being on the grounds would be good enough. Then he could talk to Lupin, ask him about what he was feeling, if it was normal, just a phase or other, or if it was a matter of Harry Is Just Being An Ignorant Git, which seemed to be usual for him nowadays. If he were perhaps even just over in Hogsmeade, then he could… On second thought, it was a full moon. Lupin, and everyone else, for that matter, would be better off if he were locked in the Shrieking Shack.

Full moon or not, Harry felt he needed someone like Lupin. Professor Dumbledore was wonderful, but…Lupin was the same age as his father would have been. And with Sirius…gone...Harry wished, with something close to desperation, that his parents and his godfather were still alive. He wanted a family. He wanted something normal. For once. Finally. Something resembling normal. He had the briefest taste of it when Sirius was alive, and then again, his last month with Aunt Petunia. He needed something close to normal.

Is that too damn much to want for?

He felt the footsteps on the bridge long before he heard them. He closed his eyes as the sound drew closer. The rhythm had an even cadence. The steps were slow and careful, but not cautious. Simply, they were measured, assured. They were the footsteps of someone who did not waste movement. It was one of the many things that Lupin had taught him during his brief tenure as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, gauging an opponent through the use of a single sense alone. It was also something that, without realising it, he’d had years of practice at living with the Dursleys. He could tell Uncle Vernon’s mood based on his movements through the house, Dudley’s as well. It served to help him get out of the way of the odd “just for” beating.

Hit “just for” being that Potter boy.

The rustling of fabric, layers of fabric, the faint jingling of metal, and a light scent carried by the breeze…it was some kind of flowering herb. He could remember that much, but Harry wasn’t certain what it was.

He was certain, however, that his company was distinctly feminine.

“Mr. Potter.”

His eyes remained closed, his face toward the mists. “Professor Lilasmorte.”

He felt her lean against the railing, heard her garments move against the wood. “Very good, Mr. Potter. Professor Lupin taught you well. Either that or I should reconsider wearing these boots.”

Her voice was low in tone and slightly grainy. It was huskier than he expected for someone as young as her. Then again, she was a good ten years his senior. Her voice held a faint lilt to it as well. The way she coached her voice, it sounded as though she were suppressing something, either her original accent or perhaps a lisp. He had learned a great deal in a short amount of time from Lupin. He finally opened his eyes and cast a sideways glance at her. “Do you know Professor Lupin?” He was careful to avoid eye contact.

She nodded, choosing to stare ahead at the moonlit fog. Her gloved hands were folded in front of her. “I’ve met him on several occasions.”

Her response was neither an affirmative nor a negative, Harry noted. It was definitely in keeping with being a member of the Hogwarts faculty. “You were up for his old position.” Harry made it as a statement and not a question.

“Yes, I was.”

“Why didn’t you get it?”

“Headmaster Dumbledore felt that Professor Auct was a better candidate, being an Auror.”

At this Harry frowned. “An Auror?”

She nodded and smiled. “I’m sorry; thought you knew that Plummy is an Auror. He’s supposed to be a rather good hunter of Voldemort’s fan club. I do believe that he’s sent a few would be assassins of yours to Azkaban.”

He nearly smiled at that. He liked that she had a touch of irreverence. And, that she didn’t seem to have a problem in saying Voldemort’s name and that she shared something about Auct Plum’s acts on his behalf. “Then Professor Auct would be a good candidate for DADA,” Harry stated quietly. “I suppose I should thank him at some point.”

“I should think that he would like that,” she replied in a soft voice. They stood in silence for a moment, and then Professor Lilasmorte spoke. “Are you inspecting the bridge, Mr. Potter?”

He frowned, but he didn’t let her see this. “Why?”

“It’s late, even for a seventh year, even for a prefect, even for a seventh year prefect…and I was of the impression that you weren’t to wander the grounds alone.”

“Was I wandering, then?” He made his voice sound as innocent as he could.

Harry heard Lilasmorte laugh quietly. “Ah, unless that was a bit of cunning misdirection in your travels, it did look a bit like wandering.”

“You were following me?” He wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or affronted. There was something about the new professor that was profoundly off-putting, never mind the occurrence in the Great Hall. Who was she to follow him around? She was teaching Advanced Muggle Studies of all things. Was this going to happen all of the time? Professors popping up all over the place, waiting for something dire to happen? This is just what I need my last year at Hogwarts, a bloody death watch on parade after me. Profs gathering in my wake like a murder of crows. “What did you do that for? And how long did you follow me? I didn’t notice you.”

“No offence, Mr. Potter, but you wouldn’t have noticed a small brigade of Death Eaters bearing down on you on Twigger 90s in the state you were in. And I followed you for a good while. It’s something I’m told I’ve a talent for.”

“Really? Being a sneak is a talent, is it?” he muttered through a scowl.

“Sometimes. Mostly it’s called Going Around Unnoticed.” By the sound of her voice, Lilasmorte was not put out in the least by his comment.

Harry sighed loudly and asked, “Right. You’ve been following me. So, you know about it, then?” He continued to stare out into the surrounding mist. He wasn’t quite ready to look at the professor again.

She laughed, a sound that was not unpleasant. “Hmm, yes. It would be hard not too. You are famous, Mr. Potter.”

It was his turn. Harry snorted at that, a short derisive laugh. “Yeah. I’m The Boy-Who-Lived. Poor dearie, that Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived. Poor soul. Poor little boy. Poor sod. Yeah, that’s me all right.”

“You’re not quite the little boy, Mr. Potter. I dunno about your being a sod. I’d like to reserve judgement on that. I would say that you are the young man who lives time and time again, it seems.” She made the assertion with a slightly wry tone to her voice.

Harry did smile this time. “Despite Voldemort.”

“I should think it is more along the lines of in spite of.”

He nodded, conceding the point. The conversation fell into silence. They stood still and faced the fog, quietly assessing one another, or so it felt to Harry. He was still taken aback at the fact that he had been followed. That was nearly as galling as the fact that he hadn’t even noticed that she had been trailing him. A thought occurred to Harry. “Are you a member of the Order?” he asked suddenly.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she replied.

Harry didn’t quite like that answer. “You’re not an Auror, are you?”

She shook her head and added, “No again.”

Harry liked that even less. And yet you followed me across the school grounds... “Hmm. I suppose that’s why you lost the DADA job.”

“And I would suppose that you would not be far wrong in your assessment.”

“You are also fairly young to be a professor,” he continued. “You’re only ten years older than me.”

She chuckled and said, “Very good. But it’s eight years, Mr. Potter. Only eight.”

“Eight years, then.” Eight years. That would make her twenty-five. That was still very young to be a professor at Hogwarts.

There was another period of silence. It was a companionable silence, Harry found. It was, in a way, relaxing after their little exchange. They both stared out at the scenery, motionless, still. It was Harry who broke the calm yet again. “What were you trying to remind me of, Professor?”

“How’s that?”

Harry turned and looked directly at Lilasmorte for the first time since the Great Hall. “You were trying to remind me of something during Announcements, when Professor Dumbledore introduced you. What was it?” He kept his tone even, but allowed his resolve to come through.

She turned and faced him. The yellowish tint of her glasses seemed to fade in the moonlight. “That,” she began slowly, “was an accident.”

“An accident?” Harry frowned and took a step toward her. She didn’t move; she scarcely blinked. “You cast an enchantment on me in front of the entire school, Professor Dumbledore included, and you mean to tell me that it was an accident?” He allowed his infuriation to reflect itself in his manner.

“And that would be the truth, Mr. Potter.” A smile flickered across Lilasmorte’s face. “It was an unfortunate coincidence, an unlikely combination of factors. I apologize for any inadvertent enchantment. It was not deliberate.”

Her answer was quite unsatisfactory and he was starting to lose what little patience he had. “But it was as though you were trying to remind me of something important,” Harry pressed. He took another step toward her. She still did not move away.

“Perhaps there is something important, tucked away in the depths of your recollection, that I unintentionally triggered.” She titled her head at him. “Serendipitous, yes. Purposeful, no. I don’t know what it is that is nagging at your memory, Mr. Potter. I’m sorry that I don’t have the answers that you seek.”

She sounded too much like Dumbledore with that response. He was getting tired of receiving non-answers from everyone, the Headmaster in particular. As much as he liked and respected the man, Dumbledore’s answers by way of puzzles and aphorisms, once charming, were now galling. Why can’t anyone in the Wizarding world answer a damn question directly? Harry took yet another step toward Lilasmorte. He was now close enough so that his school robes were touching hers. “Then you can at least tell me how you bewitched me.”

She narrowed a glance at him through her tinted spectacles and leaned in close to him. Harry was taken aback at how close she was, but did not move away. He was taller than her, just tall enough. He had not noticed that previously. The distance between them was now intimate, but he wasn’t uncomfortable. Not entirely. “Are you always this forward with your instructors, Mr. Potter?”

It occurred to him that she was wearing lavender. That was the scent he had perceived earlier but could not name.

He stared at her from above his eyeglass frames, his green eyes wide and defiant. “Only with the ones who enchant me on the first day of school,” he replied coolly.

She arched an eyebrow as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Such spirit. It will be interesting having you in my class, Mr. Potter.”

Her tone was sarcastic, yet Harry had the feeling that she was merely acting flippant. He wasn’t certain why he had the impression, but he was sure that he wasn’t wrong. “I think you will find me to be quite interesting, Professor Lilasmorte.” He purposefully stressed her title, feeling a bit glib himself.

There were footsteps on the bridge, the sound of running, multiple footfalls. Both Harry and Lilasmorte turned to face the source of the commotion, moving away from one another.

“Harry!” shouted Ron and Hermione in unison. They ran over to him, both obviously relieved to have found Harry at last. Closely following behind them was the black robed figure of Professor Snape.

Harry smiled at them and visibly stiffened at the sight of the Potions Master. “What are you doing here?” His question was directed more toward Snape than to his friends. He felt a swell of anger rise inside of him. It was intense and it was burning and it was surprising. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry, but suddenly, he was, and he clenched his hands into fists.

“We were worried about you, you damn bloody idiot,” exclaimed Ron, oblivious to Harry’s change in demeanour.

Snape cocked his head to the side. “Indeed, Mr. Potter,” he said. His voice was uncharacteristically bereft of disdain, startling Harry. “Your friends were quite worried about you.” He looked to Lilasmorte. “You appear to be fine.” He spoke to Harry but kept his gaze upon the professor.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked him, casting wary glances at Lilasmorte in between looking him over for visible signs of damage. She didn’t appear to notice his shift in manner either.

Harry forced a laugh for her sake and nodded. “I’m fine. Really, I am. I don’t know what all of the fuss is about.” He managed to unclench his hands and shoved them into his pockets roughly. Might as well go all the way with the pretence of being casual and happy to see Snivellus... Harry felt Professor Lilasmorte look at him just then. He didn’t return the glance and instead watched the exchange between Ron and Hermione.

“You don’t know? Bloody hell, Harry, you were acting a right loon after orientation. You scared Hermione.”

“I wasn’t frightened, Ronald, I was concerned for Harry.”

“Concerned, scared, you weren’t acting yourself, Harry.” Ron shook his head. “It was as though you were in a trance.”

“As though you were enchanted,” Hermione added darkly, directing an accusatory glance at Professor Lilasmorte.

The woman merely blinked in return. From her manner, Harry thought that she would have gone so far as to add a yawn as an insult – he could well see her doing that, just to wind up Hermione. He nearly laughed at the thought. A yawn would have certainly raise Hermione’s hackles.

Snape looked the students over and said, “Well, now that we’ve located your errant Mr. Potter, perhaps you children should return to Gryffindor.” That was said with some of Snape’s trademark sarcasm. “It is drawing late in the evening, and even prefects and Head Girls are not allowed to wander about the grounds at all hours of the night. Besides which, we are all familiar with Mr. Potter’s particular circumstance and he especially should not be roaming without either a care or an escort.” With that Snape brusquely nodded toward the other side of the bridge. His attention, Harry noticed, was still on Lilasmorte.

The moon was rising higher in the sky, casting its unearthly glow on the school grounds. Harry almost didn’t want to leave; it was an eerily beautiful night. But Hermione stepped around Snape and took Potter by the hand. “Come along, Harry.” She clasped his hand firmly and led him down the covered bridge away from the two teachers.

“Yeah, you must be tired after the journey and that feast, not to mention all of the walking you must have done. Took us ages to find you.”

For some reason, Harry felt as though he needed to humour his friends. “You’re right, Ron, I am a little tired now.” Harry glanced over his shoulder at Snape and Lilasmorte and gave them both a look; one that he knew was a mix of warning, questioning, and distrust. He then continued toward the school with his friends.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It felt like hours. It had to have been hours. He had been lying in bed, staring at the red velvet curtains for too long. Hours must have passed. It simply had to be dawn soon. There was just no way that he could be awake for so long and it not be near sunrise.

He lay back and thought on his first day back at Hogwarts. Hermione had been surprisingly reserved and aloof with him upon their arrival at Gryffindor Tower. She instructed Ron to take Harry on rounds with him, and then left them to make her own rounds, saying very little to Harry in the process. Although he had not been so concerned with Hermione on the bridge, back in the tower he was a bit put off that she had abandoned him. It was very unlike Hermione. He knew that she must be angry with him. After the way that he’d left her in the hall…and then, to roam the school without a member of the Order knowing where he was, that should have had Hermione livid. She should have been furious with him. But she hadn’t said a word on it. In the very least, she usually wanted to talk things through, to get answers. She must have questions about everything that was happening. He knew that he had questions. He really needed Hermione to help him think things through, to make sense of what was occurring. But she had left him with Ron and didn’t even speak of what happened that evening. He didn’t see her after he and Ron finished their rounds either.

First some person visits Aunt Petunia and makes her…love me. Love me! After fifteen, sixteen years, a sit down makes her love me? Then, during Announcements, I get a wink from the Headmaster and Auct Plum. Since Plummy is an Auror, is he a member of the Order? Is that what the winking was about? What about Lilasmorte? She enchants me in front of everyone and then she follows me as I wander the entire bloody school. Why do that if she’s not a member of the Order or even an Auror? What does she know? What do they all know? Probably everything, as usual, and I will be the last to know, as usual. Bloody typical. I’m of age, I’m seventeen, and I’m the one in the damn prophecy. Why can’t they tell me what in the hell is going on, just once? And Hermione… Hermione…you just left…when I need you, you leave…why?

After their conversation on the Hogwarts Express, he was left even more confused by Hermione’s behaviour. She seemed so worried about him on the train, on the bridge…and then she simply…wasn’t. Harry didn’t understand that at all.

Ron hadn’t seemed to notice; or, he at least pretended not to notice. Ron had never been very comfortable with emotionally charged matters, and Hermione’s coldness would not have been any different for him. Ron usually feigned ignorance in order to avoid having to deal with an overly emotional issue. At any rate, feigned ignorance or no, Harry couldn’t really speak to Ron about it. Ron was a great friend, one of his best friends, but there were certain areas that were Ron’s domain and other areas that were Hermione’s.

And then there were those areas, such as Hermione’s odd coldness to him, that were no one’s domain. Or should have been the purview of his mother and father. Or Sirius. Or Remus. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and sighed heavily. He didn’t have anyone he could talk to about that, about his feelings, about Hermione’s strange behaviour. Harry was all alone in that regard.

Harry reached across his chest, rolling onto his side slightly, to pick up his wristwatch. He squinted at it. Then, cursed softly under his breath as he remembered that his Dudley hand-me-down digital watch didn’t work at Hogwarts.

He rolled over with a loud sigh and a soft thump. Through a gap in the curtains, he could see as Hedwig shifted on her perch and turned her snowy white head toward him, yellow eyes glistening in the moonlight. “I know, Hedwig,” he whispered to her. “Sorry.” She blinked at him, and then turned away.

Harry shifted position to lie on his side. He could see through one of the windows from his new position. He refused to put on his eyeglasses, as the act would signify a defeat against in the pursuit of the sleep that eluded him. He narrowed his eyes at the window. He could see that the moon was still high in the night sky. So, little time had passed at all. Damn it. The bloody insomnia was starting to wear on him greatly. With everything that was happening…Harry was fairly certain that he had not had a good night’s sleep since his second year at Hogwarts. The only time he seemed to fall asleep readily was when he was crying himself to sleep. He would have gladly looked over his treasure of photos again, but he had already been told off, first by Seamus, then by Dean. After Seamus got on him, Harry smartened up and pulled the drapes to a close, hiding the Lumos glow of his wand. That was of little help when the photographed Marauders took to trying to make him laugh, causing Dean to shush him.

He heaved another sigh and wondered if he ever was going to fall asleep this evening. He loathed the time when he would see the sun’s rays creeping into their dormitory. The thought pained him and he closed his eyes tightly against it. It was simply unfair. If and when he did fall asleep, his dreams would surely wake him well before dawn. Despite what he leaned of Occlumency under the tutelage of Professor Dumbledore, he still suffered from nightmares. They were nightmares of his own mind’s creation, though, and not the ones that Voldemort had been feeding him since fifth year. Not that the change in source made the dreams any better. He could hear Ron turning and shifting in his sleep. Harry cast a glance over his shoulder. Ron always thrashed about a bit; he was a loud sleeper and an even louder dreamer. Tonight was no different as his arms and legs were flailing about underneath and above the bed sheets and Ron was muttering to himself. Harry parted the curtains on that side so he could see the inevitable outburst.

He wasn’t left waiting for long. Ron suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, his blue eyes wide. “Stupid toad faced bat,” he croaked.

Harry snickered. Ron was funny enough awake…his middle of the night rants while asleep tended to be most amusing. “How’s that again, Ron?” he asked him in a soft voice.

“Bloody Useless Umbridge. Stupid toad faced kettle. Put the bat on and mind the gap.” Then he plopped back down into his bed and started snoring noisily.

Harry rolled over, trying not to laugh too loudly. There were many times that he envied his friend and this was no exception. Not only was Ron asleep, but he seemed to be having another dandy of a dream. “You are a lucky man, Ron,” he breathed. Harry lay back in his bed, staring at the canopy, and closed his eyes shut tightly. He would will himself to sleep. It would work this time. He would make it work.

After what was perhaps fifteen minutes, Harry gave up. He slid open the curtains on his bed and took a look round the dormitory. He looked to his right, at Seamus’ bed. He was draped across his bed, face down in his pillow, Wizard and Muggle magazines spread across the coverlet. Next to him was Neville. He was sleeping quite soundly. Neville was such the sound sleeper that from time to time Harry and his friends would do things to him. It was never anything truly awful, just normal prankster level things like Spellotaping rope candy to Neville’s ears or, a Muggle favourite that Dean had taught them, the art of shaving cream and an owl feather. Next to Neville was Dean himself, splayed beneath his West Ham poster and bits of sketching and doodling, arms and legs akimbo, his mouth slightly open. And then, rounding the dormitory, laying to Harry’s left, was his best friend Ron Weasley, head tilted back, mouth open, and snoring loudly.

You bastards. You lucky bastards. Wish I could sleep like you.

At that, Harry put on his glasses, pulled on a jumper, grabbed his box of photographs and his wand, and made his way downstairs to the Common Room. He had forsaken his shoes in an effort to be quiet and he immediately regretted it. The stone floor was cold, like ice, and he found himself hopping across the room on his toes. Harry ran down the staircase as quickly as he could barefooted, and sighed as his feet touched the large rug of the Common Room.

There was a fire still burning in the fireplace. Harry thought that to be odd, considering that every student was supposed to be in bed. He scanned the room. He didn’t see an occupant and it didn’t appear as though anyone had recently been there. Though it was his first day as a prefect, he did feel a jab of responsibility. It was the duty of the prefects to ensure that the House was as secure as possible and that the students were safe. Meanwhile, someone had left a fire to burn in his tower his first day on the job.

Harry came round the sofa, and was surprised to see Hermione there, seated on the floor just before the fire. She had a book in her lap, Hogwarts: A History, but she appeared to be ignoring it and was instead staring at the flames. He didn’t expect to see her awake so late in the evening. Though he had no real idea of what time it was, he knew that it was late, past midnight. He never expected to see her ignoring her favourite book.

“Hermione?” he said gently. When she didn’t move, he took a few steps toward the fireplace. “Hermione?” he said again, a bit louder this time. She gasped and turned quickly, the tome sliding from her lap onto the floor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, Harry…” She appeared to be slightly flustered and clumsily attempted to pick up her book and stand simultaneously. She nearly toppled over. Harry threw everything that he was carrying onto the couch and grabbed her wrist to keep her from falling. Hermione’s grip on Hogwarts, A History loosened and she spun around and careened into Harry, knocking his glasses off. His spectacles fell to the stone floor with a loud clatter and Harry heard a high-pitched chink as one of the lenses cracked from the contact. But, as Hermione was now pressed against him, he didn’t really care about that. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She stared up at him and blinked, very slowly.

Harry drew in a quick breath and said, “No, it’s okay. I’m – I’m – Are you all right?” He found that he had difficulty in speaking. His hand was still around her wrist. His other hand was held in front of him, hovering just over her left shoulder. Her free hand was barely resting on his chest. Despite the loss of his glasses, Hermione was close enough for him to see her very clearly. He couldn’t quite remember her being that close to him, not ever. “You…were going to…fall.”

“Yes. I was.” She was breathing rapidly; he could tell from the hesitation in her speech and from the way her chest rose and fell against his.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped as he realised that he had completely forgotten what it was he had meant to say. Then he asked again, “Are you all right?”

She nodded. She continued to stare at him. Her eyes were wide and dark as the main source of light in the Common Room came from the fireplace. He could still see the brown of her eyes, highlighted cinnamon by the fire. Did her eyes always look like this? Not really brown, but this sparkling shade of… He noticed that she was saying something to him. What? “I’m okay,” she said again.

He nodded mutely, as his mouth had run dry. They awkwardly separated and stood before one another, Hermione with her hands clasped together. Harry ran a hand through his already unruly hair. “Um,” he began, then stopped. That had come out little better than a croak. He cleared his throat and began again. “Um, I am sorry about earlier, Hermione.” He flicked a glance at her.

She looked from the rug to him and then back down again. “It’s all right. I mean, Professor Lilasmorte did something to you. You weren’t quite yourself.” She fidgeted, knitting her fingers together. He remembered that Hermione did that when she was nervous.

“I still…I mean…I should have said something more…than I did.” Harry ran a hand through his hair again and bit his bottom lip. “Definitely a case of Harry Is Just Being An Ignorant Git,” he murmured with a crooked smile.

He heard Hermione laugh and was relieved to see a smile on her face. “What’s that?”

“Something I was thinking about during my travels,” he grinned.

She appeared to relax, and folded her arms across her chest as she regarded him. “That you’re an ignorant git?” She laughed again. “That was quite a walk. I wonder what revelation will come from the next one.”

“That Harry Is Also An Egoistic Jackass?” he offered with another grin. She laughed again, which is what he had hoped for, and shook her head. Her pigtails swung back and forth and she stepped around him. He rather liked her in pigtails. She had started wearing her hair like that for bed in their third year. It helped to tame her formerly bushy hair. Her hair was still curly, but he liked that as well. A light golden brown with nice, gentle, curls…

Hermione knelt behind him and stood up, holding his glasses in her hand. “I’m sorry about your glasses, Harry.” She gingerly handed them over to him. There was a fracture on one lens, running through the middle of the glass and spanning the breadth. He shrugged and slipped the glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Then, with a bit of a smile on his face, he sat down in the wing chair to the right of the couch and waited.

Hermione looked down at him, a look on her face that Harry knew was the Exasperated With Harry expression. “You’re just going to wear broken spectacles, are you?”

He grinned broadly and replied, “No, because I know you are going to fix them for me.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly. She placed her hands on her hips and asked, “What makes you think that, Mr. Potter?”

He grinned again. “Because, Miss Granger, you always do.”

Despite the pout she wore, Harry knew that in actuality Hermione was trying not to smile at him. She screwed up her face even more and sat on the edge of the couch. “What makes you even think I’ve my wand with me?”

It was his turn to pout. “As a once proud co-founder of Dumbledore’s Army, in addition to being Head Girl, I should think you would have your wand with you at all times.”

She sighed and chuckled. She reached into her pyjama pocket and withdrew her wand. “Oculus Reparum,” she said with a smile, and waved her wand at his glasses. There was a soft tinkling of glass as the magic repaired the damage. “Are you ever going to learn that spell? It’s rather basic, you know.”

“Why should I, when you’ll always be there for me?” Although Harry was grinning as he said it, he didn’t mean it as frivolously as he hoped it sounded.

Hermione looked back at the fire, an expression on her face that Harry couldn’t quite read, and then turned her attention to her lost book. “What are you doing up, Harry? Not more nightmares, I hope?” There was genuine concern in her voice as she lightly stepped over to retrieve Hogwarts, A History. She took a seat on the edge of the couch, further down, toward the window.

“I just couldn’t get to sleep. What about you? Why are you up?”

“I couldn’t sleep either. I kept…thinking about what happened to you during Announcements. There is something about Professor Lilasmorte that bothers me.” Hermione held the book against her chest and wrapped her arms around it. “There is something off putting about that woman.”

Harry nodded. He had to agree with Hermione, there was something strange about the newest professor. “We’ll have to find out more about her. She knows something. She followed me, Hermione, and I didn’t even notice her. I only picked up on her presence on the bridge, but I think that is because she wanted me to know she was there.”

“She followed you? Through the school, across the grounds…?”

“Yes, that’s what she told me. I don’t have any reason to believe that she wasn’t telling the truth. I asked her if she was a member of the Order or an Auror and she told me no. I don’t know why she would have followed me like that if she’s not either.”

Hermione frowned at him. “I don’t like that, Harry.”

He nodded. “Believe me, Hermione, I don’t like that.”

“But Dumbledore wouldn’t have hired her if she was a threat to you.”

Harry shrugged at that. “I don’t think that he would. But I can’t rightly say what I think about what Dumbledore does anymore…I’m never told anything, so…”

“He would never let anything happen to you while at Hogwarts, Harry.”

“Lilasmorte enchanted me in the Great Hall in front of every student and every faculty member, Headmaster included. Care to make the statement again?” He had spoken more bitterly than he had intended to, but Harry didn’t regret it. It was true.

Hermione pursed her lips and frowned again. “Snape noticed.”

At this, Harry laughed. “Ah, yes, Professor Snape. Is that why you and Ron dragged him along? Is that what made you think to fetch him?”

“Snape is still a member of the Order, and as he was the only one to have noticed anything awry during Announcements, yes, that is what made me think to fetch him,” Hermione glowered. “If Lilasmorte had further plans for you, he might have been able to stop her. In the very least, we were certain that he would take our concerns seriously.” She snorted in disrespect and turned away from him.

Harry felt a pang of regret at that. Hermione had only done what she thought was right to protect him. If Lilasmorte were there to attack him, just Hermione and Ron might not have been enough to fight Lilasmorte off, especially if she was a Death Eater that had somehow slipped past Dumbledore. With Snape being the only teacher and Order-member to make note of what occurred in the Great Hall, it would have fallen to him to be the one to act. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Now that’s the fourth.” Hermione turned round to face him, and he saw that she was grinning. “You’ve been through a great deal, Harry,” she said as the smile faded slightly. “It’s understandable that…well, it’s too much, isn’t it? It’s just too much.” The latter came out as little more than a whisper.

Harry was at a loss. He knew that he had been a terror to be around in recent months…no, not months, the past few years, ever since the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Cedric Diggory’s murder, and the return of Voldemort, Harry knew that he had been nearly impossible to deal with on occasion. Those occasions were becoming increasingly frequent. And Ron and Hermione, especially Hermione, had bore the brunt of his temperamental behaviour. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice hushed.

“Five,” she mumbled with a soft giggle.

Now he laughed, took the pillow from behind him on the wing chair, and tossed it lightly at Hermione. “Will you stop that? Why are you counting what we’re saying? Is this a Head Girl thing?”

She gracefully deflected the pillow onto the couch. “It’s just…I’m just…being silly.” She grinned at him, and partially covered her mouth with her hand. Harry had to laugh, and they both sat, giggling, for a little while. Hermione’s gaze wandered down to the couch and she said to him, “Oh, Harry, your photos.”

“What’s that?” He looked at the couch and saw that, when he had first moved to keep Hermione from falling, when he flung what he was carrying onto the couch the photo box had opened and the contents had spilled. Photos were spread across the couch, and the cushion that he had flung at Hermione had landed in the middle of the spill. He rose and knelt on the rug in front of the couch. “It’s all right. No harm done, I think.” He started to sort through the photographs.

“Here, let me help you.” Hermione put her book in the arm chair by the window and slid onto the rug next to Harry. She had knelt close to him, but still maintained a bit of a distance.

Harry felt some disappointment at that.

“I, ah, didn’t really have them sorted in any fashion,” he said to her.

“You should. You need an album for these.”

“I was thinking about adding some to the album that Hagrid gave me first year. There is still a bit of room in there.”

“That would be nice. You still need another album, though. There are loads of pictures.” Hermione was gathering them into neat piles, and seemed to be sorting the photos according to activity. He noticed that she had a bit of a Quidditch stack building.

He grinned and gave a nod at the stack. “I guess my dad liked Quidditch.”

Hermione laughed. “Do you really think so?” She paused in the sorting and held a larger photo before her. “Look, it’s a photo of his old Gryffindor team.”

“Really? Anyone we know in the photo?” he asked jokingly, as he tended to his own stacks.

When she didn’t answer him immediately, Harry turned to look at her.

Hermione was staring at the photo, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “Harry…” She moved the photo over a little, so that the fire illuminated it better. Harry moved closer to her and looked at the group shot.

He saw his father dressed in his Gryffindor Quidditch robes, nonchalantly leaning against his broom, grinning at the camera. Surrounding him were his team mates. They all looked like a decent group, mostly men. There was one girl with light blonde hair and a pretty smile. He scanned the faces of the rest of the team. He smiled at the various grins that the team sported, and then froze.

Winking at him, in the photo, was a sandy haired and blue-eyed Auct Plum.

“Auct?” Harry looked into Hermione’s eyes. There was no mistaking it. It was him. “Auct Plum knew my father?”

She nodded slowly. “It’s definitely him. He looks pretty much the same, except for the hair and the purple eyes, but that is Professor Auct.”

“Maybe that’s why he winked at me,” he breathed.

“He winked at you?” She sounded aghast.

“Yes, just like he’s doing now. Dumbledore winked at me, and then Auct winked at me during introductions.”

“I didn’t see that.”

Harry smiled at her. ‘Hermione, I think I was the only person to make eye contact with Auct. You and everyone else avoided looking at him.”

Her cheeks flushed with colour. “I was not avoiding him.” She held the photo closely before her and stared at it.

“You were.” Harry suppressed a laugh.

“Think what you like, Harry.” She flipped the photo over and made a noise that sounded like a gasp. “Harry! He wrote their names on the back!”

“My dad wrote something?” He felt his heart jump at that. He had never before seen his father’s handwriting. Hermione handed him the photo and Harry eagerly scanned the back. Though a bit faded, the handwriting was still clear. It was a little poor, but his father had written his team mates’ names in block lettering, so it was legible. It was plain that it was his father’s handwriting for the inscription he made for himself: PRONGS, SEEKER (ME!). He used nicknames instead of their true names. There was a Stick, who was a Beater, and a Striker, who was the Keeper. His father had written the names on the back of the photo in the same place as the figures on the opposite side stood, so Harry knew who Stick and Striker were. There was a Roddy, who was another Beater. Auct, who was a Chaser, was called Rocks during his school days. “Rocks?” Harry said aloud. The other Chaser was called Lily.

“Lily?” echoed Hermione. She had been following along with Harry. “That’s not a reference to your mother, is it? Is that the girl on the team?”

“No, she is the –“ Harry turned the photo over. “—the Chaser over here. Her nickname was Nike.” Harry pulled a face. “Not the –“

“No, I think rather the Greek goddess of victory. She was born before the Olympians and was often in the company of Athene.”

Harry slid a glance at her. “You are amazing,” he murmured.

“Pardon?” Hermione looked at him and blinked.

Harry hurriedly turned back to the photo. “Erm, so, that means Lily is…him?” He pointed at a smiling face in the photo. He was standing between Rocks and Prongs and occasionally put two fingers behind Rocks’ head to mimic rabbit ears. He was of the same height as his father and Professor Auct and had dark hair and blue eyes. He looked to be about the same age as Auct, both appearing to be older than his father. For some reason, he looked familiar, but Harry wasn’t certain as to why.

“He looks familiar,” said Hermione. Again, she had followed right along with him. “There’s something about his face…I’m not sure what it is.”

“You’re right. Maybe it will come to us at some point.” Harry frowned at the Gryffindor team photo one last time before placing it in the box. “Are there any more pictures of Auct and my dad?”

Hermione moved the stack between them and they started to search the photos, placing the ones with Auct into a pile. Soon they had gathered a short stack of Auct-related photos. In many of those photos, Lily the Chaser was present as well. Hermione took one of the Auct photos in her hand and considered it. “Rocks and Lily,” she said softly. “There is just something so familiar about Lily…”

Harry took half of the stack and sat on the floor, his back against the couch. He idly flipped through the photos. “Auct knew my father. What does that mean to me?” He sighed. What did it mean to him, if anything? Was it simply coincidence or was there something else at work in his life yet again?

Hermione joined him. She slid onto the rug next to him, right next to him, to his surprise. She leaned her head on his shoulder, to his greater surprise. “It could mean that he’s someone you could talk to.” She watched as he continued to rearrange the photos in his hand. “You could find out a bit more about your father. Professor Lupin has been so busy with the Order that you haven’t been able to really speak in ages. Professor Auct is here, now, so you could have the entire term to learn more about your dad.”

“He doesn’t look like a dear friend, not judging by these photos. Just a mate he played Quidditch with.” Harry fought the urge to place his head atop hers. He very much wanted to do that. Instead, he forced himself to look at the photos again.

“Does he have to be a dear friend?” she asked him quietly. “Wouldn’t something, anything, about your dad be nice to know? He might have been friends with your mother for all we can tell from the photos. I don’t think it would hurt to talk to him about it.”

Harry smiled. This was the Hermione he knew, the Hermione who could cut through the heart of his problems and present him with the solution. The Hermione who was always there for him, unfailingly. The Hermione who just wasn’t herself earlier in the evening, the same way that he wasn’t himself earlier in the evening. “You’re right,” he told her. “I will mention something to him tomorrow, after class. We’re scheduled for the afternoon?”

“Yes, after Advanced Potions.”

“Bugger.”

She giggled. He felt her body move against his as she laughed. “You’ll survive.”

“Snape mightn’t,” he replied darkly.

“Harry Potter, you wouldn’t dare…”

He smirked and put on a casual air. “I am in need of some duelling practise. Work on my hexes and curses. What do you think Snape would make of a Balbutio curse?”

Hermione pulled away from him and hit him in the shoulder. “You wouldn’t!”

“Ouch! Are Head Girls allowed to attack prefects like that?” He rubbed his shoulder, putting on a wince.

“Yes.” Then she hit him again, just above his hand.

He stopped rubbing his shoulder and glared at her. The effect was lessened by the grin on his face. “I fear that Ron and I have truly become a bad influence on you,” he announced.

Hermione cocked a smirk at him, one that he had never quite seen before on her, rustled his hair, and stood up. “You have no idea.” She took the rest of the photos on the couch and placed them into the box, then picked up her copy of Hogwarts, A History and headed for the staircase to the girls’ dormitory. “You need to get some sleep, Mr. Potter. You will have rounds in the morning.” Harry rolled his eyes and then pouted. “No. It’s simply of no use. Go on then. Off to bed with you.”

He heaved a weighty sigh and stood up. “Yes, Miss Granger,” he said in a monotone. He rolled his eyes at her again.

She smiled brightly at him. “That’s better. Good night, Harry.” She turned and ascended the staircase.

Harry watched her, and didn’t move until she had disappeared from sight. He stood immobile for a while, then collected his things and slowly climbed the staircase to his room and to another restless night. “Good night, Hermione…”

∞

Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

The characters of Melora Lilasmorte, Petr Auct, Edmund Paisot, in addition to other original characters / members / creatures of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, the Ministry of Magic, and the Muggle world, as presented in the story published herein, are the creation of M.L. Stone under the Portkey author name of carondelet. This story was authored by M.L. Stone and posted at Portkey under the author name of carondelet. Any reproduction without the express written consent of the author is strictly prohibited.

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers of varying degrees to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...move along, there’s nothing to see here. Warning: this fic is H/Hr. It will be mostly fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though you may not initially think so. There have been a few “squee” moments, with more to come, I assure you. Now that we’ve gotten the warnings et al in the open…

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: Thanks to RONIN10 for being a human thesaurus and for helping me work out a portion that I didn’t like the sound of (and arigatou gozaimasu for the advert in your story, “The Growing Darkness & the Fading Light”). Omataseshite sumimasen; I had to decide how long I wanted this chapter to be, since the opening is cleaved from the end of another. I cut it at a logical place and not necessarily a poetic one.

The two one-offs, one shots, what have you notwithstanding, this is still my first piece of Harry Potter fan fiction. And yes, gentle reader, this remains a long and therefore slow piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. Therefore it will feel at times that events are hardly moving at all. Though hinted at throughout, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. Beware the MacGuffins; they can tend to be cranky, so if you aren't one to put up with all of that, may I suggest a Crup or perhaps a Kneazle? They may be more to your liking.

Though it may not seem it initially, this chapter does pick up shortly after the close of Chapter Four, “Yesterday, Tomorrow”. And, like “Yesterday, Tomorrow,” it’s another chapter that I am not very fond of. Gakkari suru. >.< Gomen-nasai.

Oh well. Time to sally forth.

__________________________________________________________________________

HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER FIVE: AT LEAST, BE HUMANE

__________________________________________________________________________

Black.

It was black.

With a start, Harry realized he was asleep. And within a nightmare. But not –

“Oh, no,” he murmured.

A hollow laugh burst forth and greeted his exclamation, and it echoed through the void. “Oh, no, indeed, my dear Potter.” His name was pronounced with great mockery.

Harry stared at what was probably the floor, considering his upright nature, and frowned. That voice...how could he hear him so clearly? Something had gone wrong. He was better able now to shut out Voldemort, particularly after what happened sixth year, but this voice... There was a peculiar strength to the voice, one that made him feel apprehensive. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so alarmed.

Harry took a few reluctant steps toward the source of the voice. “You....” He spun around in a circle to look at the black. “How are you here?” he asked of the darkness. “Why?”

He heard a sound not unlike someone sighing in exasperation. “Because you live.” He heard the sound of a hand as it slammed against brick and mortar. “You can’t protect them forever. I’m going to be free soon. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“I’ll only stop you again.”

“I only want what’s rightfully mine.”

The disembodied voice punctuated the remark by a smash of a hand against the brick again. Harry listened in abject horror as chunks of mortar fell loose and hit the surface he was standing on. He knew that the voice spoke the truth. The brittle sound rattled through the darkness of his unconscious, ringing persistent in his ears.

“You can’t have it back,” he said, clenching his hands into fists. He screwed his eyes shut in defiance. “The matter has been settled. It’s his now. We had to take it.”

His words echoed through the darkness as if they were a mantra.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way and you know it.” Harry swore that he could hear the voice smile. “No one consulted me, the one who mattered most in all of this, the one who lost it all. Who’d have thought, after all, Potter?” Again, the word was spat out with derision.

“If I could set you free I would. But you would destroy us all.”

There was a pause that weighed heavily on his heart.

“So you would kill me again, and they would help you?”

It was more a statement than a question.

Harry hung his head wearily. “I would do what I have to.”

The voice giggled and startled him. “Well, it is far more difficult to murder a phantom than a reality.” The voice giggled again. “Oh, I’m sorry; did I offend your ears?”

Harry shook his head and steeled his reserve. “No.” He stepped forward and stared at the blackness around him. “But I’m afraid that you will be the end of us all.”

He could imagine the owner of the disembodied voice grinning now. “Oh, really? Excuse me? Are you certain? Tut, tut, Potter.” The voice laughed. “The next time you’re by a mirror, you shouldn’t open your eyes; you won’t like what you see.”

“Why, would your face be staring back?”

“Hah! Very good! Come to think of it, I might settle for less...but I will always hold you accountable, Potter. I always have. And now, thanks to the Dark Lord, I’m able to add you on to my list.”

Harry closed his eyes in disgust. “You are still the same. Still ignorant, still arrogant, still convinced of your own bloody moral righteousness. You haven’t learned. Not even death taught you. You have no idea of what was at stake, what might have been lost forever. You don’t understand.” He set his jaw and began to walk away from the sound of the voice. “All of this discussion is dead.

“Much the way you and he believed me to be, isn’t that right, Potter?”

Harry stopped in his tracks. His emerald eyes stared into the darkness. They were full of pain.

“It was never meant it to be this way.”

The voice started laughing, a thin, hysterical laugh, one that filled the void. The laughter seemed to cover the floor, rise to his ankles, to his knees, to his waist. The insane laughter threatened to drown him. To drown him in the sound of Rodolphus Lestrange’s deranged, dead cackling.

Harry shut his eyes tightly, clenched his hands into fists, and willed himself away from the sound, willed himself deeper into his own unconscious, before the sound of the laughter caused him to join Lestrange in hell.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Godric’s Hollow never looked so peaceful.

Harry knew then that he could only be having a dream.

He glanced around him and squinted against the brilliance of the moonlight. The moon was immense, dazzling silver filling the midnight sky. He closed his eyes and took in the sweetness of the night breeze. He hadn’t thought of Godric’s Hollow in a long time.

“Perhaps there is a reason for that.”

The voice sounded the way swallowing broken glass would feel.

Harry turned to face the speaker. It was a woman dressed in the flowing gauzy white of what he knew to be an Edwardian wedding gown. Her face was featureless, but was the colour and texture of the finest white porcelain. Despite the lack of physical features, Harry had the distinct impression that the White Lady was smiling.

“You must be disappointed,” he replied coolly, as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t rake myself through these coals as often as I used to.”

The White Lady tilted her head, and again Harry was of the suggestion that she was smiling. “On the contrary, you have been doing quite well. Particularly well, regarding recent events.”

“But those events have made me happy,” he countered, his response on the defensive. “Aunt Petunia told me that she loves me. I got to knock Malfoy down on the train. There’s a teacher at Hogwarts who knew my father.”

“And there is the sweetest thrill of confusion for these very same events and more.” She strode closer to Harry, and turned her featureless alabaster face to the stars. Harry could almost see the moon reflected in the cold facade. He instinctively took a step away from her. The void of a countenance followed his movement. “We are not strangers, you and I. I do not see the reason for your...apprehension.”

Harry bit his lip and directed his attention to the heavens overhead. “You can’t exactly call us friends.”

The White Lady turned to again face the remembered sky. “Acquaintances, then. You have always provided well for me.”

Harry felt an ironic smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “As you have provided for me.” He took a look round at their surroundings. They were standing in the middle of the street on which his parents’ had lived. Though he didn’t dare to look, Harry was sure that their house was behind him.

And he was equally as certain that this night…it was the Dark Night.

“Remembering something?”

Though it had been almost a year since their last meeting, Harry could not forget the White Lady’s predilection for causing him suffering. He had been longing for sleep, had wanted to dream, but not like this. Not like this. Damn her. “Yes. Bringing me back here…you could at least be humane,” he snarled, his patience lost to the Dark Night.

“This night…it was a rather…agreeable night for me.” The White Lady sighed; Harry thought the sound would literally cut into him. Her voice sliced through the night air like long knives.

“I’m sure that it was.” Harry’s voice held onto the bitter edge that it had gained. It was his only immediate form of resistance. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve a fondness for this place.”

He grit his teeth at that. “I meant my mind, my dream.”

“As did I.” She effortlessly moved before him and her plain white face seemed to regard him. Harry had to fight to suppress a shudder. “We all need our champions, you know,” she explained, her tone one of amusement.

The mention of the subject made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Back to this tired old argument. Didn’t she get it when we had this conversation a year ago? I don’t want to be any kind of damned champion. To anyone. Bad enough I am the Boy-Who-Lived. “So, am I to be your champion then?” He said this with heavy sarcasm.

The voice smiled as the White Lady spoke. “Would you decline the position?”

Harry drew in a ragged breath as he wearily closed his eyes. It wasn’t his to turn down. But… “Would I have a choice?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“I didn’t think so.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck absently. He stared up into the sky, stared past the stars. He had known that this time might come. He had hoped, given the horrible events of sixth year, that her appetite for his…misery would have been sated. It appeared that she would never find her fill of his anguish. Well, then, he would do now what he should have done sixth year. “If I am to be your champion,” he began in a dull voice, “you would not mind doing me a courtesy.”

“What would that be?”

The White Lady’s voice sounded faintly amused.

Harry faced the White Lady, and met the shining porcelain face with his dark green eyes. “I want you to spare my friends most of their torment.”

Pain laughed and threw her head back as she did so. “Spare your friends?” she echoed. The White Lady shook her head and her platinum hair gleamed in the moonlight. “They have all carried my favour of their own free will on many occasions.”

“For me. Never for you. And none of them are your champion,” countered Harry, biting off each word. “The dealings that…she had with you do not affect my friends. As you’ve already said, I am your champion. My friends have carried my torment for long enough. It’s not theirs to bear; it never was.”

Pain shrugged. “Does that really matter?”

“Yes, it does,” answered another voice. This time the voice was soft and soothing, euphonious in its musicality. “For one of them is my champion, and I should think that you would no sooner tamper with my champion than I with yours, little sister.”

An exquisitely beautiful young woman stepped from the shadows of a large oak tree. Her face was smooth and without blemish, her almond-shaped eyes were like sparkling amethysts, and her lips were of a perfect form and an expertly tinted shade of cranberry. Her skin was so pale as to be incandescent, and her face was benevolent as well as resplendent. She wore the black, beaded outfit of a flapper from London in the 1920’s.

Time walked past Harry and stood next to her younger sister Pain.

“Aren’t we still one short?” Harry muttered sarcastically.

The flapper smiled. She used a perfect finger to smooth a strand of shiny ebony hair behind an impeccably shaped ear. “The youngest will be arriving shortly.”

Harry’s eyes flickered to the moon above. “He’s got a champion in all this?’ the young man murmured with a frown, not pleased at the apparent prospect.

Time and Pain glanced at one another. It was Pain who answered.

“Yes, he does.” The White Lady turned her alabaster face toward the distance. “And he would have been my champion, if my brother had not claimed him first.”

“So I’ve come in second. Hurrah for me,’ Harry muttered under his breath.

“Do not allow my sister to taunt you. She would have claimed my champion for herself if I had permitted it,” the flapper explained to him, a sympathetic smile appearing on the flawless visage.

Harry stared into the milky china of the White Lady’s countenance, as his eyes darkened. “Why are you fixated on me?” he asked. His voice quavered with his anger and his false bravado.

Another voice interrupted with the answer to his question. “Because you have served all of us so well.”

The newest voice was cacophonous, as if all the instruments in an orchestra strained against each other in discordant, minor keys, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was maddeningly and frighteningly exquisite.

The last of the three siblings stepped from the shadows and into the vivid moonlight. The youngest of the triad was elegant, but not in the pure and sincere way that the flapper was, or in the cold and cruel way the White Lady was. His face was familiar, yet elusive at the same time. Harry closed his eyes for a moment and the impression of the young man’s features disappeared from memory. When he looked back, the newcomer was still as striking and still as familiar. He was dressed, rather morosely, in the fashion of a Victorian gentleman. He was wearing a top hat that was vaguely reminiscent of…Professor Lilasmorte’s.

Death joined his sisters under the midnight sky.

“You needn’t fear for your friends,” he said with a smile. “My sister will protect her champion, as her champion will protect her.”

Harry couldn’t help but to smile dryly in return. “And what would your older sister do for her champion?”

The White Lady leaned her head in the manner which made Harry think she smiled and replied, “I will do as you ask. I will spare your friends most of their pain.” The White Lady arched her vacant face at him again. “But I will only keep from them the pain which they refuse to bear. No more. And for as long as you are my champion.”

Harry looked toward the trees and stared into the branches. He could just see the silhouette of the moon through the silvery leaves. “And how long is that?”

“As long as you are needed,” came the reply.

“The same is true for all of our champions,” explained Time, as she cast a glance at her sister’s alabaster face.

“Although the moment draws near that you will all be needed to champion us,” added the newcomer. He absently picked flecks of dust from his coat.

“Who is your champion?” Harry asked of Death, though he had a very good feeling he already knew the answer.

The pallid figure of the young man dressed as an undertaker fixed upon him with black eyes, the irises so dark that the pupils were swallowed by the surrounding blackness. Then Death smiled, with perfect white teeth, and answered, “Someone you might know. Let me just say that I believe he will make a far better champion than his predecessor.”

“Pettigrew served you as well as his greedy heart would allow, brother,” murmured the White Lady.

The undertaker smiled again. “Yes, that is true. He served me better than he could have ever imagined.” Death flicked another designing smile at his older sister. “If I remember correctly, he also provided for you.”

“Ah, yes, you are correct.”

Time regarded her younger siblings. “Do not allow their deliberate attempts to disturb you have the desired effect, Harry,” she reassured in a gentle tone. “The moment will arrive in which you will understand all of this.”

“Provided that I survive your champion, I take it?” Harry asked of the undertaker.

The grimly clothed figure gave an elegant shrug. “The moment for the fulfilment of the prophecy is soon approaching.”

The White Lady gathered her flowing white dress about her. “You will understand quickly enough.”

The young wizard stared at a nearby oak, his mind reeling from the information that his ultimate confrontation with Voldemort was indeed coming, sooner than any had anticipated. He wondered if he would be ready to meet the challenge...especially if Death had a champion of his own. And especially if that champion was…he directed a look at the White Lady. “And how am I to champion your cause?” Harry laughed ironically, without mirth, and stole another glance at the moon. He found looking at the threesome hard to bear.

“That is for you to decide.”

Harry turned to face the three siblings but they had gone.

He was alone in the bright moonlight, with the night wind. It blew strands of his black hair across his forehead, across his scar. The one that had been granted to him on this night, the night of his parents’ murder.

Harry shuddered against the breeze and closed his eyes. Then his mind left the discomforting familiarity of Godric’s Hollow and slipped deeper into his unconscious.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He awoke with a start. He had been dreaming again. It wasn’t one of Voldemort’s dreams…it was different. Familiar, but, not the same as one of Voldemort’s old presents. It felt like perhaps it was more than one dream. Harry sat up in bed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked toward one of the leaded windows. The sun was only just starting to rise; there was the faintest hint of pink to the sky outside. It was just as well that he woke up now; he would probably have to get up soon anyways, it being his first morning as a prefect.

He pulled on his glasses and slowly climbed out bed. Harry quietly gathered his kit, slipped on his trainers, and shuffled off toward the showers. He gave Ron a brief glance before heading downstairs. It was too early yet. He’d get ready first, and then come back up and wake Weasley. Let him sleep. Over the years, over the course of our friendship, I owe him at least that much.

As he descended the stairs, he wondered about the dreams and how or who had directed them. He knew that he’d had more than one dream, but he couldn’t remember much in the way of details. He did have a vague sense of his parents. I could have dreamt about them. Or something to do with them. He had the warm sensation of the memory of his parents definitely in his mind. There was another presence in his mind…no, two…both familiar in some fashion. One was unsettling; the other, strangely comfortable.

It came to him after he had showered and dressed. On his way back up the tower to his dorm room, the image came to him, quite plainly. In his mind’s eye he saw a small, pale face, framed by dark hair, seen through bars or slats. A face with grey eyes.

Harry froze in place, a hand on the poster to Ron’s bed, and stared at nothing. “Who…” he whispered. “Who…are you…?” He shut his eyes tightly and tried to picture every detail. But the memory had started to fade. There was little left for him to focus upon. Nothing more than the grey eyes staring back at him. “Who…”

“Oi,” grumbled a voice. Harry’s eyes snapped open and he looked down. Ron had woken and was rubbing the sleep off of his face. “Is it time already?” he groaned.

“Um, yeah, Ron, we have to round up the, um, first years,” Harry replied jerkily. His eyes darted around the dorm room as he attempted to hide his worry from his best mate.

It appeared that he wasn’t successful. Ron sat bolt upright in his bed and gave Harry a serious look. “You all right?”

Harry managed a small shrug and nodded. “Yeah. Just a rough night.”

At this Weasley frowned. “You had a nightmare. Harry, it wasn’t –”

“No, Ron, it wasn’t him.”

His face brightened and he climbed out of bed. “Good then.” Ron stretched and started to head for the showers. “You know, Harry, sometimes a dream is just a dream,” he yawned over his shoulder, “despite what Trelawney says. She’s full of rubbish anyways. But don’t tell Lavender or Parvati I said that; I’d never hear the end of it from them. They’d probably bung their dream books at me.”

“Yeah,” he replied feebly. Harry felt suddenly weak and he quickly sat on the edge of Ron’s bed. He clasped onto the poster, white-knuckled, and looked blankly at the stone floor. Just a dream, he thought. Just a dream, a simple dream, nothing more. Nothing meaningful. Just some strange dreams. “Sometimes a dream is just a dream,” he repeated. “Sometimes…” He sucked in a deep breath and slowly got to his feet. He couldn’t think about a stupid dream now. He had first years to tend to. It was time to put it all out of his mind and to get on with it.

Stop thinking about it, Potter. It was nothing. Nothing at all. You can’t even remember what you dreamed about.

Harry put on the bravest face he could muster and headed for the Common Room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry hadn’t really thought about the consequences (or, rather, the lack thereof) until Hermione made mention of it that morning during breakfast.

While he and Ron tried their best to keep the Gryffindor first years in the tower and on schedule, Harry tried his best not to think about his dreams, let alone anything else. The first years proved to be a fine distraction for him, as he didn’t have much opportunity to think at all, thanks to them. It occurred to him at one point that his being a Seeker and Ron being a Keeper was fairly good practise for being a prefect.

He and Ron had finished their rounds and just had herded the first years into the Great Hall. (“Bloody hell, were we this obnoxious?” Ron had muttered to him more than once). After much chivvying along, much question answering, and more chivvying along, they were finally able to settle down at the Gryffindor table. Shortly afterward, once she finished with her Head Girl duties, Hermione joined them.

While Harry and Ron loaded the food onto their plates amidst a flurry of robed arms, battling Dean and Neville, she poured a cup of coffee and picked up a piece of toast. She slowly nibbled on one end of it, a frown gradually spreading across her brow. As he tucked in, Harry cast the occasional glance at her over the top of his glasses. He didn’t usually eat much breakfast, but after running the first years out of bed, into the showers, into their uniforms and robes, and then all over Hogwarts, he had worked up a bit of an appetite. He watched her as he ate, and noted that she was absently looking at the table’s surface. She was thinking about something. Harry wondered what she would make of the dreams that he thought he’d had. Thought he’d had since he didn’t remember any details, just sensations. He would have to figure out a time where he could speak to her in private. With his being a prefect and her being the Head Girl, their free time was limited this term. A loud sound to his left distracted him from his considerations.

It was his best mate, eating. Ron, as usual, was raking in as much food as possible. Having been raised with five older brothers would do that to a bloke, Harry mused. Rooming and sharing meals with Dean, Seamus, and Neville could only reinforce it.

He took a sip of the coffee, and that’s when Hermione said it.

“Don’t you find it strange, Harry,” she began, “that neither you nor Ron were given detention, let alone spoken to, about what happened on the train?”

Harry held the coffee in his mouth for a moment. It had not occurred to him previously. With the polar shift in Aunt Petunia’s attitude, the trust of Marauder photos, the subsequent events during Announcements, and his restless night, it had simply escaped him. He swallowed the coffee with a loud gulp. No one had said anything to him. He was fairly certain that nothing had been said to Ron or Hermione; they would have mentioned it. He had actually attacked two prefects on the Hogwarts Express (albeit in the course of breaking up their fight), and the cramped passageway and neighbouring compartments held plenty of witnesses. Yet no one had said a word, not Headmaster Dumbledore, not Professor McGonagall. Not even Snape and he would certainly have reason to complain as it involved a Slytherin, even if it was Malfoy. Parkinson, drama queen that she was, would have absolutely played up the scene to Snape as well, crocodile tears and all.

Harry stared at his plate for a beat and then looked up at Hermione. “I hadn’t thought about it until just now, Hermione.” He looked over to Ron, who, while still eating, was regarding the both of them seriously. “Anyone say anything to you?”

Ron paused. He chewed on a piece of bacon and slowly shook his head. “Nah, mate,” he said. ‘I would’ve told you. ‘Sides, I should think you’d be spoken to first. You did knock us apart.”

A look of concern appeared on Hermione’s face. She still held the toast between her fingers, and started to tap the crust against her bottom lip. Harry soon found himself staring at the toast. Tap, tap, tap. It was ever so gently bouncing off of her bottom lip. Her lips were very pink, he decided. Her skin was a soft, milky peach in contrast. She paused, the tip of her tongue darting out to lick a few crumbs from her bottom lip. Harry’s eyes widened. Her tongue was very pink as well. Bloody hell, did she just have to do that? Now she’s back to tapping that piece of toast against her lip. She’s going to have to do…it…again, isn’t she? Grief, I don’t think I could handle it. For some reason a bloody piece of toast is about to give me a wobbly. Then he realised that he was being spoken to.

“WHAT?” he said a little more loudly than he had intended.

Both Ron and Hermione traded odd glances and then looked back at Harry. “I was saying, Harry, that it seems very strange indeed that nothing’s been done about what happened on the train. Although you had the right intentions, you did technically attack two prefects, among scores of witnesses. I was there and no one’s asked me about the incident.” Hermione cocked her head to one side and asked, “Are you feeling all right, Harry?”

He nodded hurriedly and took a quick drink of pumpkin juice. “Yeah. Just didn’t get much sleep last night.” He saw the briefest of smiles flicker onto Hermione’s face. “And what happened on the train…there being no punishment…I guess that is bothering me in a way.” He took the fork he was holding and loudly hit his plate with it. “Bloody well better not be showing me any favouritism,” he muttered, lending his words a conviction he didn’t quite feel.

Ron gave him an elbow to his ribs. “Harry, c’mon now, you did the right thing. If anyone should have been given detention or anything, it would be me. I was the one tussling with Malfoy. You did your job as a prefect, really.” He took a large, wolfish bite out of the muffin.

Hermione looked suitably impressed. “Ronald, that is very mature of you. I’m…surprised, really.”

Around a mouthful of pumpkin spice muffin, Ron mumbled, “Wahy, danks, Her-my-bon-nee.”

She sighed exaggeratedly and rolled her eyes upwards. Ron tipped the wink to Harry and continued to devour the muffin. Harry decided to hide in his cup of coffee, to keep the grin on his face from Hermione. As amusing as it was to see Ron and Hermione have a go at it, Harry knew her well enough to recognize that she was deeply bothered by the fact that there were no repercussions from the incident on the train.

“Why do you think that nothing’s happened to us, Hermione?” he asked, finally moving from behind his cup.

She put down the piece of toast and scrunched her nose in such a way that it made Harry’s foot tap a parariddle on the stone floor. She pursed her lips together as she began to twirl a strand of hair between her fingers. Harry knew from experience that she was giving his question serious thought. “It could well be that, given the witnesses, it was determined that you weren’t in the wrong, Harry. As Ron noted –” at this the red-head grinned around a mouthful of sausage “— you were doing your duty as a prefect. And, as Ron has told us, he didn’t start it. Malfoy initiated the fight.” Hermione seemed to be thinking aloud. “We have a number of new professors this term. It’s…entirely possible that they were witness to some, if not all, of what happened.”

“But we didn’t see any profs out in the corridor, Hermione,” countered Ron.

“There were people in the compartment right in front of where the fight took place,” offered Harry. Hermione’s eyes fixed on him, and he felt his mouth run dry. “I—I heard them after the fight ended, when we were walking away.” He quickly reached for his pumpkin juice. “I didn’t think they were professors, though,” he added.

“Why’s that, Harry?” She was still looking at him very intently. It was beginning to nerve Harry. In his mind, a pattern was starting to take shape. Everyone seemed to be either staring or winking at him this term.

“From what I heard,” Harry explained, “someone said that the fight was ‘right wicked’ and then that person was shushed…and I think ribbed.”

“Eh?” Ron’s mouth opened and a bite of scrambled egg tumbled out.

Hermione’s face immediately twisted into a moue of distaste. “Ronald! That’s disgusting.”

To that, Ron opened his mouth even further, revealing the partially chewed contents to the Head Girl. She twisted her face again, broke off a piece of the toast she had been eating, and threw it at Ron. He expertly caught it in his mouth. “Can’t get one past the Keeper, Hermione,” he said as he chewed the toast.

By the look on Hermione’s face, it appeared as though she was prepared to issue a very sharp retort. Harry prepared himself to intervene, but, at that moment, much to him relief, Seamus came running to the table, book in hand.

He slammed the book down on the wooden surface and announced, triumphantly, “I did research.”

Ron, Harry, Hermione, and everyone else at the table, and at the nearby Ravenclaw table, and the nearby Hufflepuff table, and even at the Slytherin table, boggled.

“Are you feeling all right?” asked Neville, a look of worry on his face. Harry couldn’t blame him for worrying; it was the start of term and they had yet to sit in class, so there was no need to do any research, not unless you were Hermione. And, this was Seamus Finnegan after all, someone not known for swotting, let alone raiding the Hogwarts library.

“I am brilliant,” Seamus pronounced with a grin.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at Ron and Harry. “Right. You’re brilliant, Seamus. Let’s have it, then. Why have you been researching and what have you found?”

Seamus flashed another grin, took a seat next to Hermione, and slid the book over. Harry read the cover aloud. “Quidditch Illustrated Almanac, 1985-1995.” He frowned at his roommate. “Why’d you pull this?”

“Because, mate, it’s been botherin’ me. After yesterday, with what Hermione told us and all, and with what happened to yeh durin’ Announcements, a name was stuck in me head. It took me a fair bit, but I finally remembered wherefrom I might’ve heard the name. So, I spent the early part of the mornin’ sussin’ it out.” Seamus folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “And I was.”

Harry and his friends moved in closer to Seamus. Harry noticed a young Ravenclaw girl looking over at them. When she met his look, she smiled in an awkward sort of way, one that made him think that he had caught her at something, and then she quickly spun round. He shrugged it off and turned his attention to the book, which Seamus had opened and was flipping through.

“What did you find out?” asked Dean, who had moved to stand behind Seamus.

He found the page he was seeking and pointed a finger at it. “Here. Feast yer eyes on this.”

They crushed in even closer and had a look.

“The Pride of Portree? What about them?” Ron pulled a face. “Purple pansies.” Harry smirked at his friend’s annoyance. In Ron’s estimation, there was no other professional Quidditch team other than the long-suffering Chudley Cannons. The Pride of Portree, despite winning the League championship in the 1960’s, might as well have been a group of rank amateurs (despite the fact that Ron’s beloved Cannons hadn’t won a championship since the 1890’s).

Neville started to read the entry. “In 1994, the Pride of Portree recruited who would soon prove to be one of the best seekers in the club’s history. A recent graduate of Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and categorised as the best seeker in Ravenclaw House’s history, Melora Lilasmorte—“ at this Harry’s eyes widened and murmurs started amongst them “—has already substantiated her Hogwarts’ reputation with a stellar rookie season with the Prides.” Neville stopped reading and looked round the group of friends. “She was a seeker?” he wondered.

“Never mind that, she was a professional?” Weasley looked fittingly impressed, even though she had played for a team other than the Cannons.

Harry stared at the entry and at the accompanying photo. It was a group shot of the Pride of Portree. He could make out Lilasmorte, in the front row of the team, wearing the trademark purple robes with the large gold star on the front, leaning against her broom. She was wearing sunglasses. He felt another tug at his memory. There was something about the photo…something that nagged at him…but what?

“She looks familiar,” Hermione said slowly.

Ron snorted and scrunched his nose at her. “Did you not have enough coffee this morning? We saw her yesterday, Hermione,” he laughed.

“Besides that, Ronald,” she snapped at him. She tapped on the team photo with her index finger. “This…is familiar. But I don’t know how.”

Harry stared at the photo again, and at the face of their new professor. She was smiling, but it wasn’t a great toothy grin like the other members of the team. The dark sunglasses were an interesting touch. She wasn’t quite standing with the team, he noticed. She was slightly ahead of them, closer to the camera, and not standing immediately next to a team-mate. Although Lilasmorte was surrounded by the Pride of Portree, she looked amazingly alone.

I know what that can feel like…

“What’s this all mean, though?” wondered Neville.

“It means that one of our profs plays Quidditch. Kind of makes her a bit more normal, doesn’t it?” offered Dean, taking a drink of orange juice. “Maybe you were right, Nev, maybe she is nice.”

Harry nodded mutely. “Oh, she’s not the only one to play Quidditch, though. Auct was on the Gryffindor team. He was a chaser.”

Ron’s eyes lit up at that. “Really? Brilliant! Maybe he’s not so bad.”

“You couldn’t even look at him yesterday,” snickered Harry.

Ron made a face at him and sat back down to finish his breakfast. “Quidditch is Quidditch, mate. At least it makes him a bit more normal, like Dean said. Even though he’s got those…purple eyes.” His enthusiasm visibly waned at the remembrance.

“In the very least, we do know a bit more about Professor Lilasmorte. Thanks, Seamus,” Hermione said with a smile.

Finnegan beamed proudly, well chuffed at her words. He nodded his head and said, “Anytime, Hermione, anytime.”

Harry had to smile in return. Hermione looked to be amused and surprised that Seamus had actually gone into the library for him. “Thanks, mate,” he said to him, clapping him on the back. Seamus gave him a nod and sat down between Dean and Neville and started to load a plate for himself. Ron leaned over and the foursome started talking about Quidditch and how it was that Seamus had even heard of Lilasmorte’s name previously. Harry smiled again. Quidditch…Auct and Lilasmorte played Quidditch. Auct with his father during their school days and Lilasmorte while at school and professionally – and she was a seeker on top of that. The knowledge made him feel a bit better, made him feel steadier. Quidditch…they had that in common. He would ask her about it at the end of class, he decided. He added that to his growing mental list of things to do on the day. Advanced Muggle Studies was their first class; after that was Advanced Transfigurations. The morning break between should give him enough time to speak to both Lilasmorte and Hermione.

He noticed that Hermione was looking at him, and he met her gaze. “Are you all right, Harry?”

He nodded and grinned. “Yeah, actually. Yeah. Quidditch…first Auct, and now Lilasmorte. Funny, the things that you can find in common with a person,” he said softly.

“That doesn’t mean that you trust her now, do you? Not after what happened?” she frowned. It was obvious to him that Hermione did not seem to care for Professor Lilasmorte. He felt a spasm of insecurity at that, one that he did not know the source of. Why didn’t Hermione like the professor? Nothing had happened. And Hermione didn’t seem too bothered on the bridge.

“Hermione, I…” he began, and then stopped. He weighed the words in his mind and then started. “I don’t know enough about her to say. She told me that what happened during Announcements was inadvertent. And you said yourself that Dumbledore would never let anything happen to me at Hogwarts.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, a habit that Harry found disconcerting and endearing, and sighed loudly. “I did say that.”

He smiled at her and motioned toward her toast. “It’s settled, then. I’m going to ask both Professors Lilasmorte and Auct about Quidditch after classes. We’ll have to leave soon for Muggle 201, so you ought to finish your breakfast.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and dutifully filled her coffee mug. “All right then. But I am going to be close by while you talk to her, just in case. And I expect a full report when you are done.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He crooked a grin at her and nodded, all thoughts of his unsettling dreams lost in the warmth of his friends.

∞

Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Additional disclaimers may be found in Chapter Five, “At Least, Be Humane”.

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...close your eyes and start singing like no one is listening. Oh, by the way, this fic is H/Hr. It will be light and airy fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though it just doesn’t taste like it right now. There has been a smattering of “squee” moments, some whacks to the head for Harry, whatnot, with more to come. So, now that I have lost all of you prospective readers…

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: Thanks to all of those who have read and stuck along for the dull ride (so, that’s like, one person?) and especially to those who have reviewed. Extra special thanks to my favourite torture subject – erm, to RONIN10. ^.^’ As always, gentle reader, this remains a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. It will feel at times that events are moving v-e-r-y slowly. I will tell you that things will pick up shortly. The chapter after next, actually. Though hinted at in the early chapters, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. There is an infestation of MacGuffins; please exercise caution, as they have been known to bite.

Right. Enough of that then. By the way, this is a dead boring chapter. Not to be taken with other sleep aids. Oh, and I HATE it as well.

__________________________________________________________________________

HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER SIX: ARCHITECTURE IN HELSINKI

__________________________________________________________________________

Over the remainder of breakfast Harry found his mind wandering to the string of revelations that had marked the start of his final year at Hogwarts. As he reflected on such things, he cast occasional glances at Hermione. He breathed an internal sigh of relief at the fact that she was currently ensconced in a book. Harry didn’t think that he could bear watching her eat or drink anything at the moment. Especially toast. Toast… Oh, that piece of toast…

Is it wrong to wish I were a piece of toast? It wouldn’t matter if I were white or wheat. Wait. Perhaps it would. Does Hermione like white loaf? Or does she like wheat? Or does she prefer something exotic, like sourdough, or rye, or pumpernickel? What kind of toast was she eating? I think it was white. It could have been white. Wheat usually has those bits of leaf and twig on the crust. I think. White is a bit plain. I’m a bit plain. I could be toast. Grief. What in the bloody hell am I whinging on about? Toast? I’m after going potty. I can just hear Peeves now, wee Potty Potter, after wanting to be a piece of toast.

Oh, Merlin….

Why was it that his life couldn’t be the uneventful sort? One filled with the ordinary, mundane routines of wholesome life? One where his greatest decision was Earl Grey or English Breakfast? Pumpkin or orange juice? Jelly or jam? Merlin, it wasn’t fair. With everything else, to be unsettled at the site of Hermione eating…toasted bread… It just wasn’t fair. His experiences so far had already taught him that lesson, among many others. Life is not fair. People die. Dreams are destroyed. Flowers are trampled on. The tea always gets cold. Life is a zero sum game and the rules always change, save for one: life is not fair.

Would it have thrown the Universe off balance if he caught a break ever so often? What would I do with one anyways? he wondered to himself. Why was it that Merlin, God, the Powers That Be, whomever was in charge of these things, thought it not only terribly amusing to set Riddle and his fan club after him, but this term also decided to make everyone either gape or tip the wink at him and also made Hermione very… soft…and pink… No, no, no, I can’t think about that right now. There are too many things going on for me to fixate on the toast and the crumbs and her lips and her tongue and how I never in my life wanted to be a crumb so badly – dammit, Potter, you’ve got to get yourself to stop thinking about that bit of toast. Too many terrible things had happened too quickly, so very rapidly, that he even had difficulty in recalling those events with absolute confidence. And now he was on the verge of being distracted completely by the way in which Hermione ate her breakfast. Harry reckoned that he was desperately in need of a rest. Someone Upside Down Or Sideways Somewhere owed him that much. He only needed to find a time and a place where he wasn’t likely to stumble onto a conspiracy of some fashion, like someone nicking the Philosopher’s Stone or trying to kill off the Muggle-borns or kill him, again and again and again, for that matter.

In all likelihood, that was as probable as Draco Malfoy giving the Death Eaters the fingers, joining the Ministry of Magic as an Auror, and marrying, hell, marrying Ginny Weasley or something. Things like that just don’t happen.

It didn’t help matters that Harry was of the feeling that, despite his best efforts, he was inexorably headed into a great deal of trouble. He always had the uncanny knack of knowing when something was wrong.

More often than not.

He could always tell when there was something wrong (when it wasn’t directly related to Voldemort. Such trouble always set the lovely token of his esteem made in the shape of a lightning bolt to burning). It only took him seven years to understand what the symptoms meant is all. With all that he had been through, Harry supposed he deserved a bit of a learning curve. Harry wasn’t certain of what to call it – intuition, perception, clairvoyance (Trelawney would have loved that), a wrenching in the gut, or a portentous pain in the knee. There was a ticklish sensation in the back of his mind, a tingle in his senses, an awareness that an event was on the verge of transpiration. If it were something really terrible on the horizon, his stomach would tighten. He would almost unconsciously clench and unclench his hands. He would gnash his teeth. All of his senses would heighten to a preternatural high. It all bore a remarkable resemblance to the sense of dread that foreshadowed a bellowed summons to Professor McGonagall’s office.

After six years at Hogwarts, he had finally learned that there was something that was essentially fundamental to the works of life, so rudimentary to the make-up of every species in the Wizarding and Muggle world (most notably with the humanoid species) that it gave a precognitive indication as to the where and when of the bludger, or bolt, or Unforgivable Curse which had one’s name fixed upon it. One would realize through some magic of physiology and design when some unfortunate circumstance was about to occur, although not necessarily at the right time, nor the right place, but almost always in advance of the occurrence.

And so, it was on the first day of his year, while at breakfast, that Harry concluded that life, for lack of a better term, sucked.

He dimly noticed that breakfast had drawn to a close. Ron and their roommates continued to argue over the successes and failures of the Cannons and the rest of the league and Hermione was still immersed in the Quidditch Almanac. Harry had never thought that he would see the day that Hermione would be reading up on Quidditch; apparently the mention of Professor Lilasmorte had piqued her interest in the sport at last. He and his classmates began to shuffle out of the Great Hall to their first classes of the term.

As they walked, Harry found his mind returning to his previous line of thought. He sighed heavily and felt the smooth surface of his textbooks beneath his fingertips, and secured his thoughts through the reality of touch. Actually, if anything, Harry felt that the events of sixth year had heightened his sense of right and wrong. He allowed himself a brief smile. He could attribute the balance to one Hermione Jane Granger. She had a wonderful moral sensibility to her, a very pragmatic way of viewing the battle between good and evil. The…skirmish…between the Death Eaters and the Order last term had something to do with it as well. The remembrance saddened him and brought back the uncomfortable feeling that something was very wrong. An unfamiliar sense of dislocation and confusion welled up within him. Things aren’t always what they seem, he thought to himself warily. He had made that mistake many times before, and was now afraid to do so again.

Harry uneasily admitted to himself that he was afraid of a lot of things, which included him on occasion.

Harry collected his thoughts and stared down at the stone floor. He knew he had to find a way to clear his mind. He couldn’t dwell on the past once more, he couldn’t afford to mire his soul in his guilt and regret. That was something that he had promised himself he would no longer do. And yet, all of his anxieties were beginning to wear on him yet again. He decided to try his best not to think about it.

Naturally, Harry found himself right back in the middle of his mental funk.

He redirected his attentions outwards and made a concerted effort to focus in on the conversation Ron and his mates were having on their way to class.

Advanced Muggle Studies, or, Muggle 201 as many of the seventh years had taken to calling it, was located on the fourth floor of Hogwarts. Harry reckoned that its location would prove to be convenient as the Gryffindor Common Room was also located on the same floor. He found himself wondering precisely where the classroom would be located – short of being in a forbidden area, there wasn’t any available space left on the fourth floor. Dumbledore hadn’t made mention of opening up parts of the fourth floor during Announcements.

Since the proud discovery of Professor Lilasmorte’s professional Quidditch past by Seamus, his circle of friends had discussed the finding and its implications on the season. Everyone had joined in the conversation…everyone save for Hermione. As she seemed to have some idea of where the Muggle 201 classroom might be located (which, as Harry thought, made sense as this was Hermione and she was Head Girl), she was walking in the lead. Ron and Harry were close behind her, with their roommates gathered round them.

They walked to class in that closely-knit group, excitedly discussing the possibilities.

“D’you think she’ll help out the Ravenclaw team?” Dean asked. “Along the lines of an academic advisor or other?”

Seamus made a noise and hung his head. “Ach, no, that wouldn’t be fair now, would it?” He shook his head slowly. “We’re buggered if she is some sort of academic advisor. The Prides are decent, yeh know.”

Ron directed a severe “How Dare You Name A Team Other Than The Cannons” look at him. Harry knew that look well. Seamus pulled an apologetic face and moved to put Longbottom between him and the Gryffindor Keeper.

“M-maybe we can get Professor Auct to help the Gryffindor team,” offered Neville, cringing in anticipation. Judging by the look on his face, Harry guessed that Neville knew that he was being used as Finnegan’s human shield.

Now it was Ron’s turn to make a noise. “Auct? That’s all well and good, but he wasn’t a professional was he?” He shook his head. “No, no, no, this is not good. This is not good at all. If Ravenclaw gets help from a pro…”

“Listen, Ron, you know McGonagall will make sure that Ravenclaw doesn’t have an unfair advantage. I doubt she’d let a pro consult for an opposing House’s team,” Harry said to him. “Just don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it, he says. Don’t worry about it. Bloody Ravenclaw’s got a pro on their team and he tells me not to worry about it.”

At this, Hermione made her one and only contribution to the conversation. “Honestly, Ronald, it’s not as though she can even play on the team.”

Weasley made a face and snorted loudly. “I still don’t like it, Hermione. It’s just not right, having a pro in around Ravenclaw. I don’t like it one bit.”

Harry could just hear Hermione say softly, “Neither do I, Ron.”

He wanted very much to say something to her at that moment, but thought against it. Not now. After class. Alone. As he’d originally planned.

It wasn’t until they rounded the corner that Harry realized where their new Advanced Muggle Studies classroom was. It was in the room that once housed the Mirror of Erised. He filed into the corridor with the rest of the class, trying to keep the surprise from registering on his features. Of all rooms, why this one? The room where he first saw his parents…

He and his friends stepped into the hallway at the same time as Malfoy and his entourage did. Upon (in some cases literally) running into the Gryffindors, Malfoy and his lot all snorted in perfect unison. The ridiculous notion came to Harry that it was as though they practised this sort of thing in their Common Room late at night. Okay, everyone, this is for the honour of Slytherin House, now, on three, one, two, three, ~SNORK~. If it were any more flawless the concert snort would have been in four-part harmony as well. Harry had not thought it to be something he’d ever hear, nor, for that matter, be anything he should want to hear.

“Potter,” the blonde sneered at him by way of greeting. Something in the way that Malfoy said his name made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.

“Malfoy,” he bit off in return, giving him a brusque nod. He tried to shake the strange feeling off. He did not want to give Malfoy any more ammunition that he already had. And there was still the little matter of him using the Separatus charm on Malfoy on the train…

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, the cool argent eyes spitefully searching his face for something. A sign of frailty. A sign of anxiety. A sign of guilt. Anything. Harry was straight away reminded of a thirsty crow pecking at a face for tears. The image threatened to send a shiver through him, so he forced his body to remain steady. He returned the hard gaze in kind. They held for a moment, Slytherin facing Gryffindor, and then the tense atmosphere buckled under its own weight.

Evidently far from satisfied, Malfoy tipped his head toward the classroom. The Slytherin contingent pushed their way ahead of the Gryffindors, Malfoy walking in the midst of them, Parkinson at her usual place, draped around his shoulders. The prefect took the opportunity to loll her head back over her shoulder. She lazily offered Hermione a rather nasty look, one of her more patronizing ones, Harry thought. Hermione’s upper lip curled and she practically snarled in return. Harry made it a point to get between the two before they took to duelling in the hall.

Apparently, Ron had the very same thought as he also moved to stand between Hermione and Pansy. “Head Girl, Head Girl,” he muttered, his eyebrows raised.

Hermione actually scowled at him. “You weren’t this cautious on the train, Ron.”

“Yeah, well, that was the train. You do the very thing you meant to do on the train here, and it’s your career as a Head Girl. You don’t want that over with the first day of the term, do you?”

Hermione glowered after the departing prefect. “She’s a miserable little wench.” Ron and Harry traded glances at that comment. It appeared that the events of sixth year were still fresh in Hermione’s mind. She shook her head and waved a hand before her, almost as if she were physically dismissing the thought. “No, you’re right, Ronald. It’s not the time now. You’re right.” She drew in a deep breath and calmly walked into class.

Ron mouthed to Harry, “I’m right?” and then followed her in, his eyes wide at the prospect.

Harry stood in the hallway, watching the rest of the class trickle in. The shiver he had been fighting finally realised itself, and he shuddered violently, goose pimples on his skin. He suddenly felt very dizzy, and almost a bit ill. He gulped down air, fighting the sensation. “Something’s wrong here,” he whispered, clutching his books tightly. “Something is not right.” He stared at the entryway to the classroom, fighting the surge of dread he felt filling his stomach. He took in several deep breaths, steadying himself. He couldn’t…be like this, not with…her teaching the class. He slowly walked into the classroom, hoping to abandon the feeling in the hallway behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione had saved him a seat next to her. Ron was on the other side of the aisle. They both seemed unaware of the fact that he had spent the last few minutes in the hallway hyperventilating. The disquieting sensation was still with him, but at least he would have his friends to either side. That helped to balance Harry some.

As he settled in, he happened onto the fact that they didn’t appear to have a professor.

“She’s never late?” Hermione murmured to him scandalously.

Ron rolled his eyes as leaned across the aisle. He offered her a shrug. “First day and all. Perhaps she can’t find the class.”

“This wasn’t a classroom before,” Harry added quietly.

“What was it?” Hermione asked him.

Harry paused a moment before saying, “Some sort of store room.” He didn’t know why he skipped over the detail of it being the room where the Mirror of Erised had been kept. It just…didn’t come out of his mouth. He was thankful when Ron didn’t make mention of the mirror. He likely didn’t remember exactly where it was originally their first year.

He was distracted by the sound of shuffling feet and quills being tapped against wood. The Slytherins were starting to get anxious. Never to be confused with someone possessing patience, Draco Malfoy was fidgeting at his desk, his foot tapping loudly against the stone floor. “Honestly,” he scowled. “She’s a Ravenclaw. You’d think she’d have to good grace to be here on time.”

His eyes narrowed and Harry leaned over his desktop to glare at Malfoy. “Shut it, Malfoy.” Something about the other boy’s comment rankled him greatly.

Malfoy adopted an expression of astonishment. ‘What was that, Potter?”

“You heard me the first time.” He said that very casually.

The other boy snarled and moved forward in his seat. “How dare you,” he spat.

“I dare just fine and well, thank you. So, you can shut it at anytime now.” Harry busied himself with setting up his parchment and quill. If he couldn’t shake the morose feelings and the prickling in his thumbs, he could at least take the mick with Malfoy. Harry did his best to look completely unruffled.

He could feel Hermione’s and Ron’s eyes upon him, the entire class, actually. They must think I’m off the trolley, he mused. Perhaps I am. At any rate, I’m going to have my spot of fun with it.

“Do you have any idea of what you are doing, Potter?” The tone was ice cold and the words were practically bitten off instead of spoken. He knew that he was getting at Malfoy.

Harry leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his robes. “For some reason, I am still hearing your voice, Malfoy.” He indolently slanted his head at him. “Do you not know what ‘shut it’ means?”

Something inside of him was pushing him on despite the fact that Harry knew that he was treading dangerous waters. The knowledge was proved when Malfoy’s face drained of emotion. He slowly got to his feet, levelling a particularly foul gaze at Harry. “Care to finish what you started on the train, Potter?” Slowly, deliberately, he parted his robes, announcing in a dramatic fashion his intention to reach for his wand.

Harry gave him a very lazy look, slid down in his seat, stretched out his legs, and did a panto of a yawn. “If I remember correctly, I was finished with you on the train…I distinctly remember knocking you on your arse. Hmm, yes, I should rather think that was a fitting end.”

He saw Hermione’s eyes widen at him. She was surprised at his cavalier change in attitude. He was surprised, he came to realise, but he figured that it was loads better than feeling sick to his stomach with trepidation.

Malfoy snarled and began to reach into his robes. In a single movement, Harry swiftly produced his wand and moved to stand on top of his seat, putting Hermione out of the line of fire and giving Malfoy a different targeting angle.

Then they heard a polite cough from the rear of the classroom.

The entire class turned as one to look at the source.

Professor Lilasmorte was sitting on the top of a long table in the back of the classroom. Her legs were crossed and she wore a satisfied look on her face. Harry immediately thought that she must have witnessed the entire exchange. She cocked her head at the two nascent duellists, deftly launched herself off of the table, and strode to the front of the class via the aisle between Harry’s and Draco’s desks.

“Down, boys,” she sighed, raising her hands. She gave a subtle wave and the two prefects literally dropped back into their seats, eyes wide, mouths slack from shock, Harry’s rear end, at least, smarting from the fall.

“What…” began Malfoy.

“How…” started Harry.

“Indeed,” said Professor Lilasmorte. She walked to her desk at the head of the classroom and turned to face the students. “Good morning,” she said to them, a bright smile on her face.

The students blinked at her in return.

Professor Lilasmorte arched an eyebrow and looked over the assembly of bewildered Gryffindors and Slytherins. “Hmm. Well. Shall I order us some pots of coffee from the kitchens then?”

“Pardon?” Harry turned to see Seamus had a baffled frown on his face, much the same as the frown he was currently sporting. “Coffee, Professor?” Seamus continued.

“Or tea. Whatever it will take to wake you all up,” she said dryly. She walked over to the lectern and clasped the edges firmly with her hands. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Once more, with feeling. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” the class murmured in response.

Lilasmorte audibly sighed. “Brilliant. I am hoping…though I must admit said hope is rapidly diminishing…that all of you received my note regarding the books you will need for this class?”

There was a general hum from the class. Harry, still in disbelief from Lilasmorte’s display of wandless magic, could only nod. She had very easily set him and Malfoy down in their seats, nonchalantly so. He slid a glance over at Malfoy. He appeared as stunned as he felt. Malfoy must have sensed Harry’s eyes upon him, for he met his glance. His argent eyes flickered over to their new professor, and then back to Harry.

Harry focussed his interest on the front of the classroom. Before him, he saw Neville slowly raise his hand into the air. Lilasmorte smiled and nodded to him. “Ma’am,” he said nervously, “I wasn’t able to get all of the books on the list.”

She smiled and nodded again and addressed the rest of the class. “Was anyone else unable to get all of the books?” Harry and his friends took a quick inventory. Quite a few hands went into the air, some of them tentatively. He wasn’t surprised to see that many of the hands belonged to Slytherins, Malfoy included. He would certainly never stoop to enter a Muggle bookshop. “I take it that it was the Muggle books you had trouble obtaining, correct?” There was a murmur that sounded vaguely in the affirmative to Harry. It apparently sounded the same to Professor Lilasmorte as she moved to her desk, opened a drawer, and began stacking books onto the desk’s surface. “As my note said, books will be provided to those who were unable to obtain them. I’ll have you all sorted.”

“But, ma’am…I don’t have any money with me. I mean, not enough to buy books with right now. Just enough for the trip to Hogsmeade. I’ll have to owe you,” Neville explained. He hid his face in embarrassment.

Malfoy and his cronies snickered at Neville. Harry felt a wave of anger wash over him, and he knew that his friends did as well, as they all glared at Malfoy.

Lilasmorte cast a glance at scowling students, and stepped over to Neville’s desk, several books in her hand. She gently placed the books on his desk and crouched in the aisle. This put her on an even level with Neville. Harry was impressed by the action and then was almost staggered by what she said next. “You don’t owe me a thing, Mr. Longbottom. I said that the books would be provided to those who were unable to obtain them. And I meant that.”

Neville gaped at her. “But, Professor, I couldn’t –”

She shook her head and patted the books with a gloved hand. “You can and you will. You owe me nothing more than your time during class and during study. No more, no less.” She stood and returned to her desk. “And that’s all.” She made a wave of her hand and then walked to the lectern. “Now, then, let’s get started.”

“But, Professor, the rest of the books,” said Theodore Nott. That it was his voice astounded all of the students, especially the ones in Slytherin.

“Your desk, Mr. Nott,” she told him. He peered down at his desk and noticeably boggled.

As did everyone else who had been missing the Muggle psychology books.

Harry could scarcely believe it. Professor Lilasmorte had…moved, transported, something, she had somehow placed the needed books at the desks of every student lacking them.

“How in Merlin’s name did she do that?” Hermione whispered. She looked around the classroom in abject disbelief. “Did you see her do it? I…she just…how did she do that?”

Harry looked over to Ron, who simply regarded him with wide eyes. “If Hermione doesn’t know, mate,” he said slowly. Harry nodded and turned in his seat and stared down at the desktop. If Hermione didn’t know how Lilasmorte got the books from her desk…if Lilasmorte was able to drop him and Malfoy without batting an eye…if Lilasmorte had followed him and wasn’t a member of the Order or an Auror…who exactly was teaching this class…?

“Now, who can tell me the definition of psychology?”

Harry snapped his head upwards at the sound of her voice. The rest of the class simply blinked at Professor Lilasmorte.

“Perhaps I should reconsider ordering that coffee,” she murmured. “Anyone? The definition of psychology?” Hermione, with an uncharacteristic sluggishness that concerned Harry, raised her hand. Lilasmorte chuckled and shook her head in a negative. “My apologies, Miss Granger, I really should rephrase my question. Would anyone who hasn’t had experience with the Muggle world please define psychology?”

There was a palatable silence. It was broken by a petite cough, and then a girl’s voice said, “It’s the study of…why we do what we do, isn’t it?” All of the students turned in their seats to look at the speaker. It was Lavender Brown, who visibly shrunk beneath the class’ gaze.

‘Very good, Miss Brown, that is a start. Now, Miss Granger, I should like to hear your take on it.”

Harry could feel the tension radiate from Hermione as the class shifted its attention from Lavender to her. Hermione seemed strangely flustered and it was becoming something of a concern to him. “Well…strictly speaking…it would be the science of behaviour and mental processes.”

Lilasmorte seemed pleased with that. “Well done, Miss Granger. With the start provided to us by Miss Brown and Miss Granger, we can begin. As you have all been through Muggle Studies, I should like to offer you another point of view on Muggles and our study of them. We have our definition of psychology. Let us examine psychology’s perspectives.” Professor Lilasmorte turned toward the chalkboard set up behind her, but was interrupted by a loud and familiar snort. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” she said over her shoulder.

Harry had the definite impression that Lilasmorte was smiling.

“Why do we need a class on Advanced Muggle Studies?” Draco elegantly draped his legs over the corner of his desk and crossed his arms. “We’ve been though the regular old Muggle Studies class. Fat lot of good that did. Why Advanced Muggle Studies?” He snorted again and Harry was convinced that the boy practised in front of the mirror every morning. “This is about as useful as studying the architecture in Helsinki would be.”

At that Lilasmorte spun round and regarded Malfoy quizzically. “What a peculiar turn of phrase,” she observed. She hesitated, appearing to seriously consider his comment, and then continued. “As to your question, Mr. Malfoy, why Advanced Muggle Studies” – at that she performed an admirable impersonation of his voice, earning a measure of respect from Harry – “I’m sure that you’ve heard that there’s a war on?” The corner of her mouth curled into a smile. “As with most wars, this one is neither gracious nor subtle.” Her smile quickly faded and Harry found himself wondering how much of the war she had experienced. “There have been losses in both the Wizarding and the Muggle world. Terrible losses, as if a loss could be described as anything other. It is perhaps only a short matter of time before we are exposed to the Muggle world fully. We have already incurred liabilities and are only just managing to suppress full knowledge of our existence. The Ministry of Magic is taxed beyond its means to erase all evidence of our domestic battles. The longer and the fiercer the war wages, the closer we come to being exposed in full. When that time does come, you will all need to be prepared for it. The best manner in which we may prepare you is to educate you. Granted, this course is entitled Advanced Muggle Studies, but I assure you, what you learn here will do you well in the Wizarding world.

“Though psychology is considered a Muggle discipline, it is applicable to wizards and witches as it deals with how we process internal and external influences. How we perceive ourselves and how we perceive others. How much of our perceptions are the result of inheritance or instruction. It is my job to offer you the tools by which you may better understand yourselves. Once you understand who and why you are, you will be better able to understand those around you.”

She paused and considered the students before her. “Understanding goes a long way, Mr. Malfoy. A little bit of understanding could well save our world.” Her face clouded for an instant and then she flicked a smile at them before turning back to the chalkboard. “The perspectives of psychology,” she said in a loud voice, writing the phrase on the black surface with a bit of enchanted chalk.

The students slowly took their quills in hand and began copying Professor Lilasmorte’s notes from the board. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. He could tell from the look in her eyes that she had the very same thought that he’d had. The war was not going well. They were losing.

…The Ministry of Magic is taxed beyond its means to erase all evidence of our domestic battles…

They were failing in their ability to keep the Wizarding world a secret. It was spiralling out of control, well out of the control of the Ministry. They were losing. The class wasn’t just to prepare them for dealings with Muggles or with each other; it was to prepare them for life amongst the Muggles. With a twist of his stomach, Harry knew this thought to be the desperate truth: the children of those who stood against Voldemort were being readied to be hidden as Muggles.

They were being readied to become orphans.

∞

Rating: R for language, graphic imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes for the next chapter and proceeding chapters.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Additional disclaimers may be found in Chapter Five, “At Least, Be Humane”.

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...the exits are located to the forward and aft of the plane. Oh, by the way, this fic is H/Hr. It will be frothy fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though it just doesn’t seem much like it right now. There has been a smattering of “squee” moments, some whacks to the head for Harry, whatnot, with more to come. Okay, now that I’ve lost you…

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: The rating has been changed due to an event late in the next chapter and for violent scenes in proceeding chapters of this story. Sorry for the delay, I was fighting with offline matters, not to mention this chapter and the next, trying to keep the PG-13 rating, trying to keep what occurs here in one chapter only, but that is for naught. I was finally able edit down Chapter Seven (yes, down, it’s still rather long, but…I did cut it down from over 10,000 words). Chapter Eight is on deck as a result and Nine is in the hole, with Ten well underway. Thanks to RONIN10 for doing a ratings-beta on the original end of this chapter. As always, gentle reader, this remains a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. It will feel at times that events are moving v-e-r-y slowly. Because they are. Though implied, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. The MacGuffins are rampant. Watch your step.

Hate to say I told you so….

__________________________________________________________________________

HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER SEVEN: EVERYTHING IS CONTINGENT

__________________________________________________________________________

Advanced Muggle Studies was drawing to a close, according to Hermione’s surreptitious tap on her watch. Harry glanced down at her wrist (she has such a slender wrist…it’s very elegant, dainty even…it looks nice and smooth as well…) and noted that there was approximately a quarter of an hour remaining in class. He was thankful that Hermione had a timepiece that worked at Hogwarts.

Of course she does, he thought to himself, she’s Hermione. She of the slender and silken wrists and the pink lips and tongue. Bloody hell, man, you need help.

The class had been subdued, primarily due to the subject matter, but Harry felt certain that the quiet mood was also due in large part to Professor Lilasmorte’s candour with the students regarding the course of the war. Perhaps his friends and his classmates had also come to the same conclusion, that they were losing the fight against Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Ron and Hermione had confirmed that they had thought the same thing of Professor Lilasmorte’s statement in the notes that they passed to one another during class.

HOW BAD DO YOU THINK IT IS? wrote Ron.

Bad enough, was Hermione’s response.

are we really losing? wrote Harry.

It certainly sounds like it, Hermione had scribbled. We’re not being taught Muggle 201 in order to learn to get on along with Muggles.

we’re being taught because some of us will be hidden among the muggles, was Harry’s response.

To this, Hermione met his glance and nodded. He turned to Ron, who gave him an uncharacteristically sombre look.

So, he had been right…

It was obvious that they were losing the war.

Harry found that he had a difficult time putting those thoughts aside. He made several efforts over the course of the session in order to have his class notes make any sense. He tended to doodle and sketch when distracted. Already his parchment was marked in several places with swirls and stars and owls. It wouldn’t have him do to have his parchment become more a work of abstract art then useful reference. He could practically hear Hermione say that. It was fitting as Hermione kept reminding him (and, particularly, Ron), Advanced Muggle Studies was a N.E.W.T.-level course. It was rotten enough that the world was coming to an end, Merlin-forbid that he should fail his N.E.W.T.s as well.

They had finished reviewing their notes on the perspectives of psychology (biological, psychoanalytic, behavioural, humanistic, cognitive, and social-cultural) and had discussed the arguments of Plato and Aristotle and Locke and Descartes. After a moment’s pause, Professor Lilasmorte closed her notebook and casually tossed it onto her desk. “That’s about enough of that, don’t you think?” she said to them with a warm voice. “It’s heady stuff for the first day. Seeing as we have…” and here she gave a shrewd look to Hermione and Harry, “…a little time left in class, and I’ve the feeling that some of you might have some questions, let’s take this time for me to offer some answers.”

Harry and his classmates exchanged sideways glances with one another. Professor Lilasmorte was certainly proving to be disconcerting. He was almost grateful that he wasn’t the only one that was put off by her.

She strode from behind the lectern, her hands raised before her. “No one has a question for the new prof?”

Harry saw Seamus look over his shoulder to him and then to Ron. He then spun round to face the front of the class. His hand shot up in the air immediately. Lilasmorte nodded at him. “Professor, what was it like playing for the Prides?”

She smiled at that. Harry noticed that when she smiled, she didn’t show her teeth; just like in the photo they’d seen in the Quidditch Almanac. “Found out about that, did you?”

At this, Seamus beamed. “Yeah, I took a look in the library.” He turned to Hermione. “Have yeh got it, Hermione?” he asked with a smile. She nodded mutely and handed the Quidditch Almanac to him. He smiled again and opened the book to the entry on the 1994 Pride of Portree.

Harry was seized by a spasm of annoyance. Seamus was smiling far too much at Hermione. And Hermione was smiling in return. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like it one bit.

What are you on about, he thought to himself. Seamus is one of your mates and Hermione is your best friend. ‘Sides, Seamus is doing you a favour by asking Lilasmorte about Quidditch. You won’t have to speak to her after class now. Don’t be thick. It’s stupid to get all bothered over smiles.

“That’s as maybe,” Harry murmured to himself, “he still doesn’t have to smile using all of his teeth.”

“What’s that?” whispered Hermione. She was looking at him with wide eyes.

H stared at her a moment without blinking. Harry finally managed to swallow and shake his head in a negative. “Erm, nothing.”

Many of their classmates had gathered round Seamus and the Quidditch Almanac, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike. It seemed to Harry that the Slytherin were interested despite themselves. Though he made a great show of disinterest, Harry could tell that Draco Malfoy was indeed attempting to pay some heed as to what the Almanac had to say about Professor Lilasmorte and the Pride of Portree. He kept craning his head so that he could steal the odd glance over the shoulder of his Housemates. Harry turned away with a snicker. Draco could be so very predictable.

He turned his attention back to his classmates, who had started to barrage Professor Lilasmorte with questions. They were coming in, rapid fire, from all sides. Not surprisingly, Seamus was first.

“So what was it like?”

“It was a remarkable experience.”

“What position did you play?” This was Neville.

“I was Seeker, just like I was for Ravenclaw.”

“You’re a Seeker?” This came from Dorothy Wainwright, a Slytherin. She had made the Quidditch team sixth year as a chaser.

“And she was the Seeker for Ravenclaw as well! The best in House history!” exclaimed Seamus.

“What’s Meghan McCormack like?” Harry had to smile at this; it was Ron who had asked the question.

“She’s intense but I played well with her.”

“Have you met Catronia?” The follow-up was Ron as well.

“Yes, I have.”

“What’s she like?”

“Well, Miss Granger, she’s much like Meghan, rather opinionated and self-assured.”

Hermione and Harry traded knowing glances.

Then it came to be Lavender’s turn. “What about the Weird Sisters? Did you ever meet Kirley?”

“Saw the Weird Sisters once or twice and I met Kirley once.”

Lavender and Parvati traded squeals at the information.

Terrance Higgs asked, “What kind of broom did you ride?”

“I ride a Skyfire 360.”

“You still ride it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Blimey, that’s the best broom!” said Dean, sounding very much impressed.

“Bloody hell, it is, it handles like a dream at high speed. Brilliant, Professor!” Ron exclaimed.

After a while the questions became something of a dull buzzing to Harry. His attention wasn’t focussed on his classmates; it was instead directed at Professor Lilasmorte. He didn’t hear her answers; he watched her as she responded. She appeared to be warm and engaging and even evidenced moments of a charming humour. He caught glimpses of the Lilasmorte he had spoken to on the bridge as well, the Lilasmorte who was evasive yet honest, sarcastic yet sincere. She indulged the mild inquisition with some grace, he noted. He watched her interact with his classmates. She seemed to treat their questions with some consideration and even seemed to treat them more as contemporaries than as mere students. He wondered how much about them she knew; the majority of the Gryffindor students gathered round were members of Dumbledore’s Army. Did she know that?

Lilasmorte would cast occasional glances at Harry, catching his eye. From time to time she would offer him a strange half smile. Harry found himself smiling at her in return.

Eventually, Professor Lilasmorte put up her hands and announced, “I think that’s been quite enough for today. It’s time for morning break.” The students went to their seats to collect their books, talking amongst themselves, as their teacher walked back to her desk.

As the students began to head toward the door, a voice drawled, “Professor?”

Harry paused from collecting his things and sighed quietly. “Malfoy,” he said under his breath.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” responded Lilasmorte, her tone even.

“Just…one last question, Professor.”

“What is it, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco folded his arms across his robes and regarded the professor with a smugness that made Harry wish he could transfigure the other boy into something useful, like a tea cosy. So he could give him to Dobby. Dobby would have loved that. He’d probably wear Tea Cosy Draco as a pair of knickers. Harry quite liked that idea. He filed it away for future use.

“They say that you’ve defeated dark wizard. Is that true?”

Many of the students glared at Malfoy, some of his Slytherin Housemates included.

Lilasmorte gave him a smile, the same odd half smile that Harry first saw on the bridge. “Ah. The ever elusive they. Hmm, well now, they say I’ve defeated a dark wizard. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, do you know what it means to defeat a wizard?”

He frowned at Lilasmorte in such a way as to imply that she had lost her mind. “Defeat? It means that you’ve beaten a wizard in battle.” He snorted.

Lilasmorte snorted in return. “Delightful euphemism. It has so effectively obscured the true meaning.”

“What in the hell do you mean?”

Harry whipped around in his seat to glare at Draco. “For someone so arrogant you are incredibly thick. What Professor Lilasmorte is saying, Malfoy, is that to defeat a wizard or witch is to kill him or her,” he snapped.

There were audible gasps from some of the students. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Hermione blinking at him in surprise. He knew that she had not expected him to turn on Malfoy so abruptly. Also, Harry thought that perhaps Hermione had never considered what “defeat” really meant. Harry turned his back to the stunned Malfoy and glared down at the desktop. He felt Hermione’s gaze upon him again and he realised that he was breathing heavily. He concentrated and managed to get his emotions under control. He wasn’t certain as to what it was that had set him so on edge, if it was due to being around Malfoy or Lilasmorte or both.

He hazarded a glance at the professor.

She was regarding him carefully, not without some concern, but she did not appear to be affronted by his outburst. She nodded toward Malfoy. “Mr. Potter is correct, Mr. Malfoy. That is precisely what it means to defeat a wizard or a witch.” She levelled her gaze again at Harry and their eyes locked. “It does mean that one has killed.” Lilasmorte shifted suddenly and smiled at the class, albeit thin-lipped. “Well, now that some of your questions have been answered, it is time that you are all on your way.” The students traded looks of confusion as she continued. “You’ve not only Advanced Potions awaiting you but there are those among you who have duties to attend to as well.” She swiftly moved to stand behind her desk and nodded to them. “Your homework assignment is to read through Chapters Five through Eight in your Psychology: General Studies textbook. Class dismissed.” The class remained in their seats, seemingly dumbfounded. Professor Lilasmorte arched an eyebrow and then gestured with her hands in a manner reminiscent of shooing away a fly. “You should be off now. I shan’t claim any responsibility if you lot are late for Professor Snape’s class or if any ickle firsties wind up flatten beneath a limb of the Whomping Willow.”

At the mention of Snape’s name, the students finally shifted in their seats and began filing out. Some of Harry’s housemates exited the classroom warily, almost backing out. Some of the Slytherin did the same. Among the last to leave the classroom were the prefects and the Head Girl. They met in the doorway and looked at one another in silence. Malfoy and Parkinson stared at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but the Slytherin prefects said nothing, instead casting a glance in the direction of Professor Lilasmorte’s desk. Then the two wordlessly slipped out into the hall. Ron blinked at Harry, visibly stunned at the lack of a confrontation. Hermione simply stared ahead at nothing. Harry was concerned at this, but only slightly. He was unable to focus his mind on anything other than the fact that Professor Lilasmorte had killed someone…and, that meant that Dumbledore had killed someone as well. After all, the Headmaster had defeated Grindelwald. Harry knew that this newly comprehended fact had been what weighed heavily in the minds of his friends and classmates. Their Headmaster had killed someone. The much-vaunted defeat wasn’t the stuff of mere legend or fairytale. It was a real and bitter and gruesome matter. Prior to Voldemort, Grindelwald was the threat to all of Wizarding-kind. And Headmaster Dumbledore had to kill him. Just like how Harry had to kill Voldemort.

He instinctively knew that this thought crossed the minds of Ron and Hermione as well. That what bloody Trelawney predicted wasn’t hyperbole, that it was quite literal: he would have to murder Voldemort.

Harry cast a glance back at Professor Lilasmorte’s desk. She was watching them, and Harry could swear that he saw sadness on her features. He turned around, unable to bear the thought of yet another person pitying the Boy Who Lived.

After a moment’s pause, the trio stepped out of the Advanced Muggle Studies classroom and slowly walked down the hall.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~”

Making certain that the first years found their next class wasn’t as painful of an affair as Harry had thought it might be. Perhaps the first years had picked up on the fact that he and Ron were subdued. Or perhaps they had been overwhelmed with their first class at Hogwarts. Whatever the reason, Harry was grateful that the idolatry had been a bare minimum and that they were at least manageable, much better than they had been at Breakfast.

He and Ron had made it to Advanced Potions with plenty of time left before the start of class. Professor Snape didn’t appear to be in the dungeon, but that didn’t change the fact that the class was as hushed as if he had been present before them, scowling and sneering them into submission.

Both the Gryffindor and Slytherin seventh years appeared to be struggling with the information that a defeat equalled a murder. This thought provided some dark amusement to a part of Harry.

Honestly, what did they all think that it meant? A best of three series of Scissors-Paper-Stone? How bloody dare the Slytherin act surprised. Of any of us, they should have known that better than anyone. It’s what most of their parents did during their time at Hogwarts and just after, romp around the bloody country “defeating” other wizards and witches and Mudbloods. They made great sport out of “defeating” those that opposed Voldemort, including my parents.

Harry and Ron took their seats. Hermione entered the dungeon shortly afterwards and silently took a seat next to Harry. As she settled in, it occurred to Harry that the class was eerily quiet. Usually the softest whisper managed to carry like a thunderclap in Snape’s dungeon, but no one had said a word. There was near complete silence in the Potions classroom. The only sound to be perceived was the sound of breathing.

Lungs expanding and contracting…

They sat there, quietly waiting, unmoving. Eventually, after only a matter of minutes that passed them like hours, Professor Snape entered the classroom. He sized up the students with a single, acid glance, and then said, “Good morning. Turn your textbooks to page 374.” He said this in a voice that was uncharacteristic; one that was without a trace of the usual toxic sarcasm.

Though they complied, the students exchanged glances. It seemed readily apparent that Professor Snape was out of sorts.

When they had reached the page in question, Snape announced, in a voice that was much bleaker than his usual, “The potion that you shall be making today, and I state unequivocally that you shall be making this as today is your first and only opportunity to create this potion, is one of the more complex and sensitive of mixtures. This shall require the full attention and focus of each and every one of you. As you should recall, in your first Potions class at Hogwarts I informed you that I could teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and, even, to stopper death. As you’ve proven yourselves collectively to be not quite the dunderheads you promised to be those years ago, today I shall teach you how to…capture the sun.” There was a gentle murmur in the dungeon at this. Professor Snape continued as if he had heard nothing. “And, as you all appear to be in the mood, if you will, we shall immediately proceed.” With a flick of his wand, Professor Snape enchanted a piece of chalk and began to write the ingredients list on the blackboard. “Print this down onto your scrolls so you will better remember it. You will be required to remember the ingredients and the methodology to this potion without the consultation of your notes. When you have finished transcribing, we shall then begin.” His tone was still abnormally hushed, serving to add to the awkward feeling in the classroom.

As Snape wrote the ingredients on the blackboard, Harry felt a nudge in his ribs from Hermione. She pointed to the title of the potion.

The “Coruscarisae” Potion, or, “Sunlight In A Bottle”.

Why? she wrote on the edge of her scroll.

no idea, he responded on the edge of his. He looked up to the front of the classroom, to where Snape was standing. Although it was only the second class of the term, it was obvious that something was very wrong with their seventh year. Something was…not right. Harry didn’t know what, or why, or even how, but something was definitely amiss.

Harry found himself wondering if he would be placed into hiding with a Muggle family, or if he would be sent on the run, or if he would have to indeed defeat Voldemort. After all, what other options were there for him? Hide, run, or become a murderer. That was all that was left. It had to be, after hearing what Professor Lilasmorte had said and after witnessing Professor Snape’s restrained behaviour.

Something had happened. Something horrible. Either in the Muggle world, the Wizarding world, or perhaps even both. He could almost hear Hermione’s voice taking the opposition as his mind started the debate. There would have been something in the Daily Prophet about it. They were too involved with the Quidditch Almanac at breakfast to even look at The Daily Prophet. Hermione had certainly not even glanced at her copy. Harry had no idea of the day’s news and he was fairly certain that no one else did either. Besides, if something had happened and had been publicised (two hads don’t make them write, a part of himself thought bleakly), the Junior Death Eaters of Slytherin would have been crowing about it. If not openly, for fear of sanction from the professors, then it would have been most certainly in some ham-fistedly “Slytherin subtle” fashion. Surely there would have been an announcement, then, if something had occurred. It would not have been beyond Headmaster Dumbledore to withhold information, and it would not have been the first time that he would have done so. The prickling in his thumbs told Harry, with an insistence bordering on preternatural certainty, that something disastrous had recently taken place, something that had been suppressed in the Wizard press and that none of the students had been informed of. Harry simply knew this for a fact. He could feel the truth of it settle into the hollow of his stomach.

Another little morsel that Trelawney would just bloody love.

They were dying. They were losing. And no one knew what to do to stop it.

That wasn’t entirely true. He knew how to stop it.

It would be up to him to kill a man.

Harry would have to become a murderer to save them all.

For not the first time, Harry wished he could close his eyes and just have it all end. He wished he could simply just fade away and that Voldemort would fade away with him.

He felt the stare of a certain pair of brown eyes upon him and turned to give Hermione a weak smile. She tilted her head slightly, her wordless way of inquiring if he was, indeed, all right. Harry found himself giving her a genuine smile in return. There were times, many times, that he felt that Hermione’s protective nature could be stifling, but this was not one of those times. He found her concern to be comforting. He wanted that from her. He needed it. Even if he couldn’t tell her that. Harry sucked in a sharp breath and returned his attention to copying Snape’s ingredients list.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~”

Snape’s hushed, almost civil behaviour in class had a profoundly unsettling effect on the students. The Slytherin were visibly uncomfortable with their Head of House acting in a manner not in anyway rude to the Gryffindors, and as a result of the lack of animosity from the professor, the Gryffindors were successful in their attempts to make the Coruscarisae potion. Snape had evidenced a cool tolerance with the Gryffindors and had even circumvented some of the Slytherin students’ attempts to goad the Gryffindors into action. It was the first time that Harry could think of that Professor Snape didn’t take points from Gryffindor, let alone prevent his own House from having a bit of sport at their expense. Despite the fact that his…congenial manner was off-putting, the class seemed to manage enough to create the Coruscarisae potion with some degree of ease. Even Neville had little difficulty in preparing the mixture. Snape didn’t go so far as to congratulate Neville, but he had been something that nearly floored all the students in the class. Snape had been…pleasant to him.

“Good, Mr. Longbottom.”

That was that. But that was enough to have set the largest grin that Harry thought he had ever seen on Neville’s face, a grin that was positively radiant. Harry was sure that Neville would wear that grin for days, if not weeks. It also helped to further set the scowls on the faces of their Slytherin classmates, who appeared to be growing increasingly uncomfortable with Snape’s less than poisonous attitude toward the Gryffindors, Harry in particular. He had scarcely cast the most meagre of glowers at Harry and hadn’t said much of anything to him, other than to comment on how he was cutting the Protuberaxi root.

“Keep your fingers curled under, Mr. Potter. Though she’s likely missed your presence over the summer, I do not think that Madame Pomfrey should wish to see you in her Hospital so early in the school year.”

In Harry’s experience, for Snape, this was as close as the man came to being pleasant.

If that isn’t the surest sign that something is wrong, I don’t know what is.

It had taken near the entirety of their allotted class time to prepare the ingredients, combine them properly, and then to monitor the combination in order to produce Coruscarisae. The potion was ready when the liquid went from pale amber to a semi-translucent milky white. There was just time enough left for them to see the result. Professor Snape had made a bottle and offered it before the class as the example. “I should like for you all to now test the potency of your Coruscarisae potions by allowing one drop, and one drop only, to fall from your bottles onto your desks. You shall do this on my command.” At that word, Harry nearly snorted. He was stopped by a well-timed knee from Hermione. “Now,” Snape ordered.

They each took their flasks, removed the stoppers, and then let a slip drop of the potion. The moment that the drop was released, the air immediately surrounding the droplet brightened noticeably. When the drop made contact with the surface of the desktop, there was the briefest of flares. It was though a burst of summer midday sun had pierced the dungeon and had danced on a pin’s head at each of their desks. The mixture was, quite literally, sunlight.

There were gasps from some of the class. It was, Harry had to admit, an impressive display, even for a bead of liquid.

Professor Snape held up his sealed flask and told the students, “And now I shall demonstrate to you the full efficacy of the Coruscarisae potion. You may wish to shield your eyes. This will be…bright.”

Harry and his classmates traded glances, some placing hands over faces, others turning slightly in their seats, while others, such as Draco Malfoy, folded arms across their chests and imperiously stared ahead at the professor.

Professor Snape took note of those who refused to prepare themselves and made a sound like sounded suspiciously like a laugh, gathered his robes around his left arm, and raised his right arm overhead. Clasped in his right hand was the flagon. In a swift motion, Snape flung the bottle toward the dungeon floor.

The classroom was immediately filled with the brightest, whitest light that Harry had seen. Some students yelped in pain and in surprise, others oohed and aahed, and others gasped. Harry had reflexively thrown an arm before his face to block most of the glare, but he was determined to see the effect. It was almost like staring into the sun. He swore that he could feel warmth, heat from the glare. The initial flash was temporarily blinding. As the residual glare began to fade, Harry could see that Professor Snape had spun to put his back to the impact point, and was hunched over with his robes over his head.

“Hermione,” he whispered.

“What?” She had clamped her hands over her eyes and had watched the display through the slits between her fingers. She was still in that pose.

Harry tried very hard not to laugh and nodded toward the still crouched Snape. “Look,” he murmured.

She widened the gap between her fingers and then sat bolt upright in her seat, taking her hands down. “That’s…” Her voice trailed off and she looked from Snape to Harry. “That’s odd,” she finally said in a very soft voice.

“Odd?” Ron hissed at them. “That’s bizarre, that is. It’s his own bloody potion. I told you he was a bloody vampire. I told you that first year.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Ronald, honestly…”

Ron looked to Harry for assistance. Harry only shrugged apologetically and made a face at Ron, the I’m-Not-About-To-Get-Into-It-With-Hermione-In-Potions-Class face. Ron scowled and slumped in his seat. Hermione took that as a sign of victory and smugly nodded.

The Potions Master finally straightened from his recoil and assessed the damage. Harry, among many other students, half-rose from a seated position to follow Snape’s gaze and was surprised to see that there was a split in the dungeon floor where the Coruscarisae had impacted. There was not only a split in the stonework, but a scorch mark as well. The shattered remains of the glass vial were scattered about, crunching underfoot as Snape moved to his lectern.

“Now you have seen for yourselves that the Coruscarisae potion is not one to be treated casually. Due to its very nature, the potion may be used as a weapon.”

Harry noticed that Hermione’s hand was in the air the moment the word “used” left Snape’s mouth.

He blinked at her, twisted his mouth into a lour, and muttered, “What is it, Miss Granger?”

“Professor Snape, what…or, whom…would the Coruscarisae potion be used as a weapon against?”

Snape arched an eyebrow. “It should only be used as a weapon as a contingency, Miss Granger. And as we are in a time of war, everything is contingent, even sunlight in a bottle.”

“But…what would one use the Coruscarisae potion on, should there be such a contingency?”

The professor sighed loudly. “Given the rather substantial crack in the floor, it could be used as a weapon against anything or anyone, Miss Granger.”

“But, Professor…creating sunlight in a bottle…according to the text its primary use is in Herbology and in the care of certain flora. Is there no other purpose then? It doesn’t have any medical value?”

“Forever and always seeking the meaning for everything in everything, Miss Granger. The potion has moderate restorative value, but only if used sparingly and under the strict administration of a mediwitch or mediwizard,” Snape replied, sounding more like his usual self. He cast a dour look at the class and then said, “Our time today has come to an end. Your homework assignment is to read Chapter 26 in your text and to memorize the formula for the Hausipositum elixir. The class is dismissed.” Snape promptly strode from the lectern and into his office.

The moment the door to Snape’s office was pulled closed, Wesley snorted and gave a wide-eyed look to Harry and Hermione. “Well, that was bloody weird,” exclaimed Ron.

“I’m afraid I might have to agree with you,” she said with a sigh.

Ron’s eyebrows automatically rose and he shook his head at Harry. “D’ya hear that, mate? Hermione might have to agree with me. Tell me this year hasn’t gone all pear-shaped, and it’s not even lunch yet.”

“There is something definitely wrong about this year. They know something and they’re not telling us.”

There was a snort from over his shoulder. “They?”

Draco and his associates were lingering behind. Ron and Hermione stood to either side of Harry, who remained seated.

“Haven’t you had enough for today, Malfoy?”

“Enough of what, Potter?”

“Of being knocked about like so much chaff. Didn’t you get enough in Lilasmorte’s class?”

“Listen here, Potter, if you think for one moment that I am going to put up with—”

“Put up with what, Mr. Malfoy?” interrupted a cold voice.

At the sound, Malfoy’s grey eyes widened. It was Snape’s voice.

All eyes turned toward the front of the class. The professor had exited his office and was standing by the lectern. Harry wondered how Snape had managed to walk across the broken glass without making a sound. As far as he could tell, Snape hadn’t disposed of the shattered bottle, so the pieces must have remained on the floor.

“Professor Snape, you know what happened on the train. Potter attacked me and this…this Head Girl threatened Parkinson. Never mind the fact that Weasley physically accosted me. Why are we to put up with it? Why hasn’t anything been done about their behaviour?”

Snape’s upper lip curled and he said, “Mr. Malfoy, if I must remind you, there were witnesses on the train that account for the fact that you were the instigator in all of this. Also, these witnesses confirm that the best course of action was for Mr. Potter to perform the Separatus spell. As I understand it, both you and Mr. Weasley bore the brunt of it.”

“Witnesses? Do you mean their housemates? They would say anything to protect them,” complained Parkinson.

“The witnesses were teachers, Ms. Parkinson. Have some imagination. You are a Slytherin and a prefect, are you not?” Snape gave them a curt nod. “Now, if you would be so kind as to leave my dungeon…I do believe you have first years to usher to class. Good day to you,” he added as Malfoy began to open his mouth for further argument. Then Snape turned on heel and marched back into his office.

The moment the professor disappeared from view, Malfoy leaned in close to Harry and hissed into his ear, “This won’t be the last of it, Potter.” He stood up straight, arched an eyebrow, and then stalked out of class, his cohorts following close behind.

“I’m looking forward to it, Malfoy,” Harry called out after him. Then he rolled his eyes and collected his bag. “Let’s go. We’ll be late.” At the speed at which he strode out of the classroom, his friends had to run to catch up to him.

“Oi, Harry, wait up!” Ron and Hermione managed to come up alongside Harry. “What’s this…Horseypositive potion that we’re supposed to be reading up on?” Ron said breathlessly. They started to ascend the stairs leading away from the dungeons.

“Hausipositum, Ron, it’s called the Hausipositum elixir.” Hermione gave a shake of her curls and sighed. Harry swore that he caught the faintest scent of jasmine. How could he have not noticed it before? Pumpkin juice, toast, and jasmine…jasmine toast…toasted pumpkin juice…juice of toasted jasmine… Hermione’s voice suddenly caught his attention. “I’m not certain of what it is. I’ve not heard of it before.”

“You? There’s something you haven’t heard of?” Ron made an impressive panto of shock and then grinned so broadly that Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. “Now that’s a bloody amazing, that is. However did Snape pull that one off?”

Granger narrowed her eyes at Ron and snorted. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t, Hermione,” the redhead chuckled. Harry felt a smile slip onto his face, one that he immediately swallowed upon receiving a nasty glare from Hermione.

“So there were professors on the train that saw the fight,” she said in a light tone.

“Yes, I suppose there were,” Ron said slowly, tucking his head down.

Hermione nodded and gave Harry a nudge in the midsection with her elbow. “You can apologise to me later, Ronald. I know you wouldn’t want to admit that you were wrong in public.”

“Wait a minute…” began Weasley.

They reached the landing that led toward the main corridor and Hermione practically skipped the last few steps to twirl around in the landing to face Ron and Harry. “It’s quite all right, Ronald. You can make it up to me later.” She then flashed a brilliant smile at the two young men and started walking away. “Don’t forget to mind your first years!” she called back to them.

Ron glared at the back of Hermione’s departing form, a look between frustration and incredulity on his features. “I don’t’. She didn’t. I can’t. She did.” Ron groaned and began to trudge down the hallway. “That woman’s going to be the bloody death of me, mate.”

As he followed his best friend, Harry stole glances at his other best friend. She walked with such purpose and assurance. Despite everything that had happened sixth year, and seemed to be happening already in their final year at Hogwarts, she still had that walk of hers: brisk and confident. Harry wondered if she really felt like that deep down. If so, he envied her that.

He shook his head and gave Ron a friendly thump on the back. “Yeah, mate, she might be the death of us both this year.”

Ron snorted and said, in a high-pitched warble, “Ronald, Harry, you must take your studies more seriously! You mustn’t forget…”

“…that these are N.E.W.T.-level courses!” Harry finished in his own fey voice. Finishing the statement in unison set them both to laughing. Still chuckling, the Gryffindor prefects went in search of their first year charges.

∞

Rating: R for language, graphic imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Additional disclaimers may be found in Chapter Five, “At Least, Be Humane”.

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films, please consult your local video retailer.

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: The rating has been changed due to an event late in this chapter and for violent scenes in proceeding chapters of this story. Thanks to RONIN10 for convincing me to cleave what was to be a monstrously sized Chapter Eight into two pieces. You should thank him as well.

Your mileage may vary.

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HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER EIGHT: IN THE CRUXSHADOWS OF THE REMAINS

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Though the First Years had been a “bit of a handful” at Breakfast (that being Nearly Headless Nick’s term in passing, and not Harry’s nor Ron’s characterisation as that was simply far too charitable a term), and were slightly subdued at the morning break, by Lunch they were…unbearable.

Uncontrollable.

Bloody heathens.

It was an absolute horror show.

Neither Ron nor Harry could think of what could have possibly occurred to set the First Years into such a mutinous state. Perhaps it was the result of having sat in two classes (the first being Charms) and now thinking that they could take on the world (“Bloody Flying, who in their bloody right mind would schedule Bloody Flying Bloody Class in the bloody mid-morning, right before bloody Lunch!” Ron seethed at one point), or perhaps it was the result of wanting to skip Lunch to go right into the next class (DADA) to learn, as several First Years put it, “how to hex those Slytherin prats into next week, just like on the train!” (this made Harry groan to no end), or perhaps it was the fact that they were just so…young.

“Were we like this?” he muttered to Ron at one point.

“Explains a lot about Perce, doesn’t it?” was Ron’s miserable reply.

By the time that he and Ron had wrangled their firsties into the Great Hall, Harry was ready to swear off being a prefect, being a Gryffindor, and being a wizard all together. A life of Chartered Accountancy held a newfound fascination for him.

Harry staggered over to where his mates were seated and fell onto the bench. He dropped his arms onto the tabletop before him, collapsed into the folds of his robes, and groaned loudly.

“A rough time of it, then?” he heard Neville ask him.

Harry mumbled a loud but muffled, “YES” into his robes.

He felt a hand awkwardly pat him on his right shoulder. “It’ll be all right, mate.” It was Dean who spoke to him. “They’ll…settle. A bit. After a little while.”

After I’ve Stupefied the whole bloody lot of them, he thought scathingly. Harry set his chin atop his forearm and regarded Dean with a sour look. “And how d’you know they’ll settle?”

Thomas shrugged and made an apologetic face. “Erm, I don’t know, really,” he shrugged.

Harry snorted and reburied his face into his robes. “THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT,” he vehemently snarled into the fabric.

There was a moment’s pause and then, “So…where’s Ron?” It was Neville who spoke. His voice sounded as though he was trying to act as a pacifier, or peacemaker.

Harry thought it a pity that he wasn't quite in the mood to be pacified. Neville was getting to be rather good at diplomacy.

“DUNNO. PROLLY RAN OFF SCREAMIN’. I DUNNO HOW HE MANAGED THIS FOR TWO BLOODY YEARS.” Even though his head was buried in the folds of his robes, Harry’s voice still carried a bit. Harry didn’t care if the First Years heard him or not. As a matter of fact, he wanted them to hear him.

Let them know fear of the Boy Who Lived To Be Completely Cheesed Off By This Sodding Life…

“Eh, maybe Percy left him some notes, before, you know, that ponce got after bein’ mental.” He heard someone pour some liquid. “So, where’s Hermione at, then?”

Harry shifted his posture into a full and upright sitting position so quickly that he wondered how it was that he didn’t break his neck. His movement was so rapid that he startled his roommates. Harry narrowed a glance at Seamus as they all stared at him. “Why d’you want to know?” He fairly snapped the question off at Finnegan; he immediately scrambled and added, “I mean, I haven’t seen her since Potions.”

Seamus blinked at him and then said, “I was hopin’ to get another look at the Quidditch Almanac. It’s due back tonight. Madame Pince wouldn’t let me have it long for some reason.” Seamus sniffed and shook his head. “What’d those ickle firsties do to yeh? Yer in a right state.”

He reached for a mug and the pitcher of pumpkin juice, his mouth having gone dry. “Um, sorry, Seamus. I just wasn’t…expecting it to be this difficult. Ron never told me that being a prefect was this hard. And I never thought that the firsties could be so…”

“…Much like a pack of savages?” said Hermione’s voice from behind him. Startled, Harry managed to slosh juice not only into his mug, but outside of it as well. The excess liquid pooled around the mug and had thoroughly soaked his hand and the edge of his robes, the cuff of his dress shirt, and part of the sleeve of his jumper. He hissed a Muggle oath under his breath. Hermione was beside him in an instant, immediately with a napkin in hand, blotting his clothes dry. “I’m so sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

“It’s okay, Hermione, I just…it’s been…well, you know.”

“Yes, I do know. And honestly, these are the…most contentious bunch of firsties I’ve seen. Not just our House, in the other Houses as well. Luna was just telling me that there are some very peculiar First Year students in Ravenclaw.”

“Luna? She told you that? Luna Lovegood called them peculiar?” echoed Dean.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I know…”

“Bloody hell,” murmured Seamus. “That must be one hell of a lot that Ravenclaw have got, then,” he joked.

She laughed and said, with a smile, “I don’t think Luna was expecting to be a prefect this year, so I would imagine that any firstie would seem peculiar to her.”

Seamus nodded and grinned back at Hermione.

Harry blinked.

He could swear that time seemed to slow and stretch. All noise in the Great Hall vanished, and the only thing that he could hear was the sound of rushing in his ears. The only thing he could see were two sets of white teeth. Harry looked from Seamus to Hermione and then back again. He came to the sudden determination that he needed to go for a walk. A long walk. Perhaps a walk back to Privet Drive. Aunt Petunia is rather decent now, so it won’t be so bad. And it would be worth the looks of shock on Uncle Vernon and Dudley’s piggy faces. Yes, I think I shall go for a very long walk indeed. He jerked his arm away from the Head Girl, muttered, “Thanks, Hermione,” and then rose from the table.

From the side of his eye he could just see the looks of concern on his friends’ faces as he moved away from the table. Harry felt a twinge of guilt, but it wasn’t strong enough to suppress the…feeling, the peculiar, queasy feeling in his stomach. He had to get away. Just…leave the feeling behind. As he began to stamp off, Hermione called out after him. “Harry? What - where are you going?”

His stomach clenched at the note of anxiety in her voice, but Harry didn’t turn to look at her. “To find Ron.” He quickly headed for the large double doors that led to the Entrance Hall. He heard the shifting of robes from behind him and instinctively knew that Hermione had followed him. He stopped and began to turn to face Hermione. At that moment, someone coming into the Great Hall walked straight into Harry.

“What the—”

“Harry!” Hermione had run into him as well, hitting him in the back.

“For Merlin’s—”

“Harry, Hermione, come here.” It was Ron who had collided with Harry. He reached out, grabbed him and Hermione by the wrists, and dragged them into the Entrance Hall. “Why is your wrist soaking wet?” he muttered loudly.

“I spilt pumpkin juice on it.” Harry made a face and demanded, “Where are we going?”

“Yes, Ron, what are you doing?” Hermione demanded, not quite following him, but not quite fighting against his lead either.

Ron didn’t stop walking until they were at the statue of the large, brass school namesake by the main doors. He spun round to face them and said, in a voice that was deadly earnest, “We need to go to the Staff Room. Right now.” He began climbing the staircase to the second floor.

“Are you mad? Why are we going to the Staff Room? Ronald, what is wrong with you?”

“Hermione, please don’t argue with me, we haven’t much time. We need to get there straight away.”

Harry and Hermione looked to one another in stunned silence. It wasn’t like Ron to be so forceful, but many things had happened over the course of Sixth Year and the summer, things that were bound to have a significant impact. Finally, Harry asked, “Have we been summoned or something? Why are we going to the Staff Room?”

Ron had reached the landing. He turned and regarded them gravely. “We haven’t been summoned. But something’s happened and this is the only chance we’re going to have at finding out what it is.”

Harry and Hermione looked to one another again, and then began to climb after Ron. ‘Do you know anything about what this might be about?” she muttered to Harry.

“No, I don’t,” he answered in kind. “But maybe this is the only way we can get answers.”

“To go skulking about the school? After everything we’ve done, after all we’ve been through? We’re owed better than that,” she scowled.

As they made their way up the stairs, Harry had to admit to himself that Hermione was right. He never thought he’d hear her say that, however, not ever. They had changed. He found himself wondering, and not for the first time, how much so.

They met up with Ron and he led the way to the Staff Room, not saying a word. The entire walk, Harry kept sliding glances over at Ron, speculating as to what had happened to make him so serious. He caught sight of Hermione doing the same and knew that she was running through every imaginable scenario in her mind. He found that to be quite comforting.

Ron paused outside of the Broom Closet and reached into the satchel that was slung over his shoulder. Harry hadn’t noticed that Ron was carrying anything until the redhead opened the flap. ‘I hope you don’t mind, mate, but we need this.” He withdrew a large, shimmering expanse of fabric that Harry immediately recognised.

“The Invisibility Cloak!” Hermione exclaimed. “Ronald Bilius Weasley, you are going to get us expelled!”

“Could you try to not sound so bloody much like my mum? No, I am not going to get us expelled,” he snorted. “That’s why I went up to our dorm to fetch the cloak. Now come along. We’re wasting time.” Ron unfurled the cloak and held it over his head, his arms stretched wide to either side. “I’ll need to be in the middle since I’m the tallest. I’ll hunch to hide my feet and robes.” When they didn’t move, Ron scowled and hissed at them, “If you won’t do this with me, I’ll do it myself.”

There was an awkward moment, one that became quite tense in Harry’s estimation. Then, with a huff, Hermione stalked over and stood to Ron’s left. Harry closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and walked to stand to Ron’s right. Ron let the cloak fall over them and they started on the short walk to the Staff Room.

They stood outside of the door. Ron led them to stand with their backs to the wall. “We’re not going in?” Harry whispered.

“Someone will see the door opening,” Hermione murmured in reply.

“My dad will be along shortly,” Ron added in a hushed tone. “He’s the reason why we’re here.”

Harry was surprised. That meant this had something to do with the Order of the Phoenix. Perhaps it would explain Snape’s odd behaviour. Harry didn’t think that Mr. – Professor Weasley would have said anything to Ron about Order business. There had been a few occasions where Ron’s dad had shared things with them against the overall wishes of the Order, but those occasions were now practically non-existent. The Order had, for all intents and purposes, shut them (Harry, Hermione, and Ron) out of all discussions Sixth Year. Not even the best efforts of George and Fred had been successful in helping them to discover how and in what way the Order was planning on defeating the Death Eaters. Things had gotten a bit out of hand Sixth Year, in more ways than one.

Things had gotten a bit out of hand Sixth Year. Harry almost laughed at that thought. A bit out of hand didn’t even scratch the surface of how utterly pear-shaped…

“What did your father say to you?” He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that the sound of Hermione’s voice made Harry wince.

“He didn’t say anything to me.” Ron was looking down at the floor, his face still set in a most serious expression. “I overheard him speaking via Floo to Mum. I had popped into his class to see how his morning had been and I heard them talking. Mum started talking to him about something awful that had happened around London. Dad said that Dumbledore had called for a meeting of the Order and that he was off to the Staff Room after the start of Lunch. It seemed like Dad knew what had happened, or at least, that something had happened in London, the way that he and Mum spoke. When he mentioned going to the Staff Room, I slipped out of Muggle Studies, ran to the dorm, fetched the cloak, ran down to the Great Hall, and here we are now. Waiting.”

“I wonder what happened in London,” said Hermione slowly.

Harry’s eyes unfocussed and he stared through the cloak at the stone floor before them. “I wonder what happened where…it might not have even been London,” he murmured in a distant voice.

Hermione moved beneath the cloak to look at him. “She’s all right, Harry.” From the look on her face Harry knew that, if Ron had not been standing between them, that she would have reached out and taken him by the arm.

Ron managed a nod beneath the cloak. “Someone would have said something to you, mate,” he added.

“D’you really think so? They could be meeting to figure out a way to tell me that my Aunt, my Aunt who suddenly remembered to love me, is dead now, like everyone else who’s ever loved me. It would be bloody typical, wouldn’t it?” His words were angry, but there was little emotion behind them. For some reason, Harry found that he was suddenly quite tired. Drained. Exhausted, even. The thought that something might have happened to his Aunt…especially now…it would just be the way, wouldn’t it?

He was spared further thought on the matter by the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Professor Weasley. The three of them stood very still as he approached. He opened the door to the Staff Room and entered it.

They made to slip in past him.

Professor Weasley stopped just past the threshold. Harry spied that there was barely enough room to pass him to his right, but only if they all stood up straight…which was not possible if they were all to remain covered.

“Professor Snape,” he called out into the Staff Room.

Harry had the best view of the room of the three of them and could see Snape. He was seated at a table in the far corner of the room, in the darkened corner. Seated with him were Professors Lilasmorte and Paisot. He frowned. There was something wrong about that, something that bothered Harry greatly. It appeared that Snape and Lilasmorte had been engaged in serious conversation. At the sound of his name, Snape looked up and toward the doorway. Harry’s eyes widened at the expression on Snape’s face. He looked…embarrassed.

What in the hell is going on at this school?

“Professor Weasley,” the Potions Master replied in a loud voice. He pronounced the title with a measure of disdain, so Snape must have been feeling better, Harry supposed.

“A word, if you please.” Weasley took a step into the Staff Room, giving the trio the opportunity to enter unopposed. They carefully slipped between Ron’s dad and the doorframe, taking care to move as quickly as they could without being seen. They slid along the length of the wall to stand in front of a long sideboard.

“Yes, of course,” said Snape. He stood from the table, gave Paisot and Lilasmorte a strange look, and then quickly stepped toward the door.

“Headmaster Dumbledore should like to see you in his office.” In a lower voice, Weasley added, “Immediately. It’s about the incident from this morning.” He stressed the word incident.

Snape nodded mutely and walked through. Professor Weasley tilted his head to the staff remaining, and pulled the door to a close.

They had no chance to follow.

Harry couldn’t believe it. He risked a glance at Hermione and Ron. Her mouth was open slightly and Harry knew that she was regretting following Ron into the Staff Room. It wasn’t Ron’s fault. Harry would have done the same in his position.

Ron seemed angry and frustrated and his face was a dangerous shade of red. Harry knew exactly how he felt. The Order was meeting in Dumbledore’s office and here they were, trapped in the Staff Room. If Ron had been able to say something, Harry was sure that it would have included the words “bloody” and “hell”.

Hermione was shaking her head slowly. He knew that she was thinking something along the lines of Ron acting without thinking, but he had thought it out, just not as far as Hermione probably would have. As it was, Harry quickly resigned himself to standing and waiting until the end of the Lunch break. It was the only thing that they could do.

It was then that one of the professors in the Staff Room said something.

“They’re meeting right now, aren’t they?” It was Professor Auct who had spoken. He was standing by the fireplace, one arm resting atop the mantelpiece.

Harry didn’t like the question. They? Well, Auct is an Auror and the Order isn’t exactly a secret. But no one is supposed to know that Snape is a member.

Professor Lilasmorte shifted in her seat and made a face at Auct, one that would have made Harry laugh in a different situation. “I s’pose they are.”

Paisot chuckled at that. “Should we meet now?”

The trio exchanged glances. What did that mean? Harry blinked and made a quick scan of the room. Present were Professors Auct, Lilasmorte, and Paisot. Also present was Professor Sinistra and Madame Pince. He frowned. The scene struck him as unusual for some reason. There was no particular reason for it. It was the Staff Room, after all, and they were Hogwarts staff.

“What would we meet about?” asked Sinistra with a wry tone to her voice. She was seated in an overstuffed chair to the left of the fireplace, sitting sideways with her back to one armrest and her legs draped over the other. He could see that she was wearing very long black boots. She looked a bit more like a student, a Muggle student, at that moment than their Astronomy professor. Madame Pince, seated on the settee opposite the hearth, answered her.

“Perhaps we could meet about…baking.” There was a sly smile on her face. In all of Harry’s years at Hogwarts, he could not remember ever seeing Madame Pince smile.

Professor Sinistra’s interest seemed to be piqued. “Baking? What makes you mention that?”

“Well—” The librarian was interrupted by a the sound of something tapping at the door. It was faint, but it could be heard plainly in the Staff Room. Auct frowned, shrugged, and then walked to the entryway.

Ron, Harry, and Hermione all tensed, ready to make a break for the door. With luck, Professor Auct might mistake any noise or movement for Peeves, the resident poltergeist. Harry was certain that he and his friends were thinking the same thing: get out and get to Dumbledore’s office, somehow.

The Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher pulled open the door, but not wide enough for the three of them to get through. Judging the gap, it was perhaps just wide enough for Hermione to slip through, but that was it. Harry saw Ron’s shoulders sag and he felt badly for him. It was a good idea. There was no way for him to know that the Order weren’t meeting in the Staff Room. They would simply have to wait and try to find out the details of the meeting another way

An owl hopped into the room and then took flight, headed straight for Professor Lilasmorte. She extended an arm, concern apparent on her face. “Ashengrace.” She had addressed the owl and to Harry, she sounded worried. He reckoned that she had reason to be. The Great Grey Owl appeared quite shaken, so much so that the sight of it made Hermione clasp a hand over her mouth. He turned back to watch Lilasmorte slowly stroke the owl. It was covered in soot and ash and some of its feathers appeared singed. “Edmund,” she said in a quiet voice. Professor Paisot stood and immediately walked over toward the sideboard.

Harry felt his heart spasm in a flush of panic. He could feel Ron and Hermione tense again as they readied themselves for movement. When Paisot went to Harry’s right, to the water pitcher, he nearly let slip a sigh of relief. Paisot poured a draught into a small bowl and took it back to the table, where he offered it to Ashengrace. The owl hopped from Lilasmorte’s arm and over to the bowl, where it began to eagerly drink. Paisot slowly petted the back of the owl while Lilasmorte removed the scroll attached to its leg.

As she read the contents, Harry could see her expression change from one of concern to one of what he presumed was anger to one that was most certainly disgust. She looked up from the scroll and levelled a glare at Auct. “This is what they are meeting about,” she told him, an edge to her voice. She stood and tossed the scroll to him.

He had easily caught the scroll. As he read, the look on Auct’s face went through several changes as well, finally settling on a look that Harry thought was rather grim.

When Lilasmorte sat down, her eyes flickered in the direction of the sideboard. There was the briefest of pauses and then she took her notebook, the black notebook that she had in class, opened it, and began to write something using a Muggle fountain pen. She was left-handed, Harry noted.

The Ancient Runes professor nodded at Auct. “What is it?” questioned Paisot. He was still petting Lilasmorte’s owl Ashengrace, but there was a frown on his face to match Auct’s expression. Paisot’s glasses were sitting on the tip of his nose, making his expression somewhat comical.

“Auct?” enquired Sinistra, shifting position to sit in the armchair properly.

Auct sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose that we should have a meeting,” the DADA professor stated quietly.

“Können wir bitte...?” It was Lilasmorte. She was still writing in her notebook. Harry had no idea of what she had said, but it seemed as though Auct understood.

“Was ist los?” he responded in kind. Harry wasn’t positive, but the language sounded like German to him. He could tell by the look on Ron’s face that he was completely lost. Hermione appeared as though she recognised the language, at least. He found that to be encouraging.

Lilasmorte continued to write in her notebook. “Ich habe ein Problem mit dem Zimmer.” Problem. Harry, Hermione, and Ron understood that word. There was a problem with something.

Auct frowned. It was almost as though he wasn’t quite following whatever it was that Lilasmorte was saying to him, or didn’t know anything about whatever problem it was that she had mentioned. “Was ist das?” He was asking her something again; Harry could figure out that much.

The Advanced Muggle Studies teacher finally stopped writing, ripped out the page from the notebook, and then began to roll it up. She looked up at Auct, said, “Es ist zu klein,” and then cast a glance over at the sideboard.

Auct’s purple eyes followed her gaze. Harry swore that Auct looked directly at him. The professor looked back at Lilasmorte and gave her a little half smile.

He can see us. She can see us. They can both bloody see us. I don’t believe it. How?

“What in the hell are the two of you on about?” demanded Sinistra. Harry felt that he could have practically hugged her for saying what was on his mind.

“I’ll tell you that part later,” the DADA professor smiled. The Astronomy professor rolled her eyes and snorted at him.

“Edmund, would you mind opening the door for me? I’m sending Ashengrace out.” The owl hooted at her loudly and flapped its wings. She regarded it with a sad look on her face. “I know…I know…just please be careful, Ashengrace. Jeremy needs to see this. I wouldn’t ask you to return if it wasn’t important.” The owl stared at her for a long stretch. She tapped her fingers on the table surface and then the owl hopped onto her arm.

She and Professor Paisot walked together toward the Staff Room door. As they crossed the room, Professor Auct went past them to the sideboard, to the right of Harry, where he poured himself a goblet of water. He turned to partially lean against, partially sit on the sideboard and slowly sipped at the water.

Paisot opened the door as wide as he could and Lilasmorte released Ashengrace into the hall. The owl was soon out of sight, flying to Jeremy, whoever that might be. She stepped to one side of the doorway, winding up at the sideboard to the left of Hermione.

Simultaneously, the trio came to the conclusion that this was their prime opportunity to escape the Staff Room and to try to find a way, some way, to slip into Dumbledore’s office. They made for the open door.

The cloak slid off of them, exposing the students to the teachers in the room.

They froze in a panto of shock. Harry had stopped in mid-stride, his eyes wide. Ron was still crouched over and he looked positively gobsmacked. Hermione had a look of absolute terror on her features. Harry knew that she was thinking that they were going to be expelled. There was no way that they wouldn’t be expelled, not after the fight on the train, and certainly not after being caught in the Staff Room.

Ron made his squelching OhMerlinthereisabloodygreatspiderherehelpme noise and closed his eyes.

As silly as it might have looked to anyone else, Harry thought it to be a good idea and closed his eyes as well. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t have to see it.

“Oh, Merlin,” he heard Hermione say. Her voice sounded quite weak and he thought that perhaps she might faint. Hermione had never fainted in the years that Harry had known her, but faced with certain expulsion, he was almost sure that this could be the first time.

Harry and his friends heard some giggling to one side of them, and then a female voice said, “Hello.” That was Lilasmorte’s voice.

And then a male voice followed with, “Hello.” This would be Auct’s voice.

“Hello,” came a third, Paisot’s voice.

“What’s all this then?” said a woman’s voice from the direction of the fireplace. It was Professor Sinistra.

They were all grinning at them, quite madly, Harry thought.

Harry straightened up and opened his eyes. He looked over at his best mate. Ron seemed to have recovered from the initial shock and was now glancing at each teacher in turn with a bemused look on his face. Hermione, conversely, had a frown on her face. She appeared to be taken aback.

“I’m sorry?” she said to the teachers in the Staff Room.

“We’re sure you are. Edmund, close the door, would you?” smirked Auct.

Professor Paisot obliged his colleague and the teachers all stared at the students, who in turn, stared back.

“This is bloody weird,” muttered Ron.

“You don’t know the half of it, Mr. Weasley,” Paisot winked at them as he moved to sit on the settee next to Madame Pince.

Harry again traded surprised looks with his friends. Ron’s statement didn’t begin to cover the half of it, as Paisot had said. Harry could see Hermione’s eyes widen as her mouth opened and closed a few times. She was working her way toward asking a question and Harry knew from experience that it was a question that Hermione thought she might get into trouble asking.

But, being Hermione, there was fairly no stopping her curiosity.

“How did you know that we were here?” she finally managed. Hermione surveyed the Staff Room and shook her head. “How could you have seen us…?” As she looked around, she glanced down at the floor and then stopped. Harry followed her gaze.

Lilasmorte had one foot on the left edge of the now evident Invisibility Cloak and Auct a foot on the right edge.

“But…” she began. She stopped and frowned as she looked at Professor Lilasmorte. Harry noticed Professor Auct reached a hand out to Lilasmorte to touch her on the arm. She immediately pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and grimaced slightly. In a moment, she appeared to be fine.

Harry blinked and then met Lilasmorte’s eyes. “You saw us. You and Professor Auct.” He nodded in the direction of the Defence Against The Dark Arts instructor. “You both saw us. You looked right at me, didn’t you? You can see through the cloak.”

Professor Auct shrugged elegantly and stepped off of the item in question. As Lilasmorte backed away, he knelt down and gathered the cloak into his arms. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen this in action,” he said quietly, with a slight smile on his face. “But, mind you, back then I couldn’t rightly see it.” He handed the bundle over to Harry. “And even now I can’t rightly see it. I can only perceive just enough of a differentiation in the refraction of the ambient light to know that someone or something is cloaked.”

Hermione nodded in appreciation, an excited smile spreading onto her features, as she understood. “The heat from the fireplace and the angle of the sunlight would have combined to help someone with enhanced or enchanted eye sight to see the difference between occupied and unoccupied space.”

“Miss Granger, might I restate Professor Lupin’s assertion that you are the brightest witch of your age,” Professor Paisot told her with a smile.

Harry could have sworn that she almost blushed at that. First Finnegan being all swotty, and now Paisot. Right. You two are on my list. Whatever in the hell I mean by that.

“So that explains why the Headmaster was able to see us in Hagrid’s hut,” Ron murmured to him. Harry frowned as he attempted to remember. “We were in front of the fireplace, right? Dumbledore looked dead at us. That must have been how he was able to see us, Hagrid’s fire.”

“That’s likely part of it,” Auct interrupted. He was still smirking at them.

That’s almost as bloody annoying as bloody Lockhart. Blow me; I’m starting to sound like Ron now.

There was a polite cough and then, “Shall we tell them what’s happened?” Paisot had asked the question.

Harry and his friends boggled at one another. “You mean you’re not going to expel us?” exclaimed Ron, taking a step forward. Hermione promptly elbowed him in the soft of his stomach. “Bloody hell! Erm, sorry, professors.”

“It’s quite all right.” Professor Lilasmorte crossed in front of the fire to stand against the far wall, next to the massive drapery, in the shadow. “I don’t think that we’re going to expel you.” She paused and when no one contradicted her, she continued. “Not for this, at any rate. But there would be a bit of a trade in order. And I do think that we should tell you what has happened.” She nodded at Auct.

He gestured to the unoccupied chairs and the vacant end of the settee. “The three of you ought to sit down.”

Ron and Hermione moved to comply, but Harry didn’t shift. He didn’t feel like sitting. Being asked to sit reminded him of…it made him feel as though he were being mollycoddled, so he didn’t move. “I’ll stand,” he said, a trace of a frown on his brow.

Hermione took her hand and struck him across his forearm, hard. She hit him with enough force for the sound to carry across the Staff Room. “You’ll sit down.”

“Ow! Hermione!” She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him over to the settee where she took up position next to him. He nearly dropped the cloak, but she didn’t let go of his wrist. “That hurts,” he fumed.

“That’s what you get for being a prat,” she shot back.

“I wasn’t being a prat, I was just fine standing.”

“You were being a stoic, stubborn, standing prat, then.”

“And you’re both being bloody obnoxious; d’you mind?”

Harry and Hermione glared at Ron angrily. “We are not…” they began in unison, and then their protests trailed off into silence as they remembered where they were.

“Sorry,” they also said in unison. Hermione released Harry’s wrist and hunched down in her seat, and clasped her hands together.

Harry felt a sense of disappointment as she let go of him. He folded his arms across his robes and rested them on top of the cloak in his lap.

Professor Lilasmorte moved from her spot by the curtains and stood to one side of the hearth. “I’ll spare you the usual obfuscation and get right to it. Something’s happened in London,” she stated softly. “Word’s come from Jeremy…my cousin…about it. Part of Kensington is gone. It happened early this morning.”

“Gone,” repeated Pince. She stared up at Professor Lilasmorte, unblinking.

“Destroyed,” added Professor Auct. He moved to flank Lilasmorte’s position at the fireside.

For a moment, no one moved nor said a word.

Harry had heard of a type of silence that descended upon a group or even a room of people. The type of silence that blanketed everything, that suppressed all sound, the kind of silence where one could hear a pin drop. It was this kind of silence that followed the information of part of Kensington being gone. The only sound in the Staff Room was the occasional crackle from the fire, with a rustle from the logs as they settled and shifted.

At length, someone spoke. “What…” Ron’s voice faded away. He cleared his throat and began again. “What part of Kensington? I mean, I don’t really know London, but…”

“The area is between Queen’s Gate to the East, Gloucester Road to the West, Cromwell Road to the North, and Brompton Road to the South,” Lilasmorte told him.

Harry supposed her to be astonishingly calm in light of how devastating the news sounded to be.

Pince gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. Sinistra leaned forward in her chair and placed her head in her hands. “That’s…that’s…oh, great Morgana…how…?”

Hermione gave Harry an anxious look, one that seemed to cut right through him. Her face was drained and her eyes wide and bright. Hermione appeared to be on the verge of tears. She knew London better than he did; judging by her reaction, she knew exactly what area Professor Lilasmorte had referred to. Though greatly restricted in his travels while living with the Dursleys, Harry still knew enough to recognise that the area that had been destroyed was substantial, never mind the number of people in that area... “What happened?” he asked, his voice quiet and even despite his churning stomach.

“They’re not certain how it happened, not right now, but…it’s much like the events of 16 years ago,” Paisot answered, skimming over the contents of the scroll delivered earlier. “Buildings are destroyed, most completely razed to nothing more than smouldering rubble. There’s…essentially a pit where…it’s basically a hole in the ground now.” Professor Paisot appeared to swallow with some difficulty and he rolled the scroll up tightly.

There was a period of silence in the Staff Room. Harry stared at the fire burning in the hearth. Well, then. More dead. Because of me. That seems to be my true talent. Death. Voldemort and murder and death and destruction. It’s followed me everywhere. Now it’s spread like some cancer, reaching beyond me, spreading from the Wizarding world into the Muggle world. It wasn’t enough to take my mother, my father. It wasn’t enough to take my godfather. Not nearly enough to take…he’s now taken several blocks of London. Because of me. Because I was born. He sucked in a breath and asked the question because he simply had to. “Was it…?”

“Yes.” Professor Auct sighed and nodded. “It was the Death Eaters.”

“How do you know?” asked Ron, his voice flat. He too appeared to be on the verge of tears. Harry knew how his best mate felt; it was almost impossible to comprehend, such a massive and sudden loss, in a heavily populated part of Muggle London.

“The Dark Mark…?” whispered Hermione.

It was Professor Lilasmorte who answered. “Yes. It was still hovering in the air after it happened.” Her voice was low and gentle. “My cousin wasn’t called to the scene, but he could see it quite plainly on his way to work.”

This caught Harry’s attention. “Your cousin. What does he do, Professor Lilasmorte?”

She smiled at him, an odd smile similar to the one she’d given him on the covered bridge. “Jeremy is an Auror, Mr. Potter.”

Hermione sucked in a breath and said, “Oh, my God, your owl flew through all of that?” It finally occurred to her, it finally occurred to Harry, that the destruction in Kensington was the reason why its feathers were singed and dirty with soot and ash.

“Yes, I imagine that he did fly through the area to get here.”

“What is the Ministry saying about this?” asked a quiet voice. It was Professor Paisot. He was staring at the fire, his fingertips on his chin. His face was most serious and Harry thought he saw a gleam of…something in his eyes. Anger. Frustration. Recollection. Harry didn’t know Professor Paisot to venture a guess.

At that, Professors Auct and Lilasmorte let out sharp laughs. Harry reckoned that their opinion of the bureaucracy of the Ministry was the same as his. “The Ministry of Magic, in conjunction with 10 Downing Street, is calling this a terrorist attack,” Auct explained, with what Harry considered to be more than a touch of sarcasm in his delivery.

Professor Sinistra glanced up at that. “They are bloody out of their minds,” she exclaimed. “Who is going to believe that?”

“Indeed, they are out of their minds, if they think that they can pass off magical damage of that scope off as a simple terrorist attack! Who are they blaming for this? Wait, let me guess, the IRA?” snapped Paisot.

“That would be my supposition, but I won’t know anything with certainty until I receive orders from the Department,” replied Auct.

Harry knew from previous experience, and from the fact that the professor was an active Auror, that Auct was referring to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“Jeremy might know something. He’s a bit on the outs from the sounds of it, but I hope to know something this evening, when Ashengrace returns,” Lilasmorte added. “If nothing else Jeremy might be able to get some information from Aunt Lavina’s sources.”

“What are we going to do in the meantime?” enquired Madame Pince, a look of unease on her face.

Harry, Hermione and Ron all blinked at one another. It was as though they were back under the Invisibility Cloak. In their discussion, the teachers had forgotten about them, or so it seemed.

Paisot was shaking his head. “The Ministry doesn’t have enough staff to perform the work necessary to contain this, and neither does St. Mungo’s,” he sighed loudly.

“Which makes the public announcement calling this a terrorist act all the more plausible,” sighed Madame Pince as she rubbed her forehead.

“We’ll know more later,” Auct told them. “If not from the Headmaster, than directly from the Ministry. I’ll keep you apprised.”

“I’m keeping you to your word, Auct.” Sinistra then put a question to Professor Lilasmorte. “Did Jeremy mention if there are any survivors?”

She shook her head in a negative. “Jeremy didn’t seem to think that there were, based on what he saw, but the Muggle authorities were conducting searches of the area. They have their canine units working the rubble in what they call SAR – Search and Rescue. But I am afraid it will be something more of Search and Recovery…” She took in a breath and then continued. “Jeremy wrote that once the Mark had dissipated, he made his way to the area on foot and saw the damage first hand. There were…” She stopped and gazed at each of the students in turn. Lilasmorte paused for the longest amount of time when she looked at Harry. She gave him a look similar to the one earlier in the morning, after class. A mixture of sadness and what he thought was pity. She finally turned away. “The Muggles will either have to cremate or have closed-casket ceremonies,” Lilasmorte said at length.

“That means…oh Morgana,” whispered Professor Sinistra. “There’s just…there’s nothing…?”

“He wrote that they were finding…for blocks around they were finding…bits…” Paisot stopped himself. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “This is why I retired,” Harry heard him mumble. “This is why I bloody retired.”

“It’s like what happened Benjy Fenwick,” Auct uttered in a hollow voice. “By Merlin, it’s like what they did with poor Benjy Fenwick.”

Harry knew the name of Benjy Fenwick. He couldn’t immediately place why, but he was certain that he had heard the name before, but not in some time.

“But they did this with thousands of people, Petr,” Madame Pince said. “Thousands. What kind of power does that take?”

Another silence fell over the Staff Room, a silence borne of shock and horror and the unfathomable destruction that had occurred that morning in the midst of what should have been inviolate territory.

Finally, it was Auct who broke the still. “There was something else. Some sort of…poem? Melora?”

As Professor Paisot still held the scroll, she recited the words from memory. “In the cruxshadows of the remains / Erased, foul Mudblood stains / Purified by our Lord’s Dark Mark / Take heed, impure, take hark.”

“Well, isn’t that bloody precious,” the Ancient Runes professor scowled.

“It certainly isn’t lacking in Voldemort’s usual charm,” breathed Auct. He gave what Harry considered to be a meaningful look to the Advanced Muggle Studies professor.

As if on cue, Professor Lilasmorte stepped forward and moved to sit on the corner of the coffee table, positioning herself between Ron in the wing chair and Harry and Hermione on the settee. “I’m not sure what, if anything, the Headmaster will tell the students about this, so I must ask you to please keep this information to yourselves for now. Members…of the staff seem to already know that something happened in London, at least, and I am certain that such news will spread. The owl posts are likely being restricted. Did you notice how there were no deliveries this morning, not even of the Daily Prophet or the Quibbler?” Harry was ashamed to realise that he hadn’t noticed the lack of owls in the Great Hall. He could tell from the looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces that they were embarrassed as well, Hermione especially. He could tell from the flush in Hermione’s cheeks that she was angry with herself as well. “I am certain that Ashengrace came here by a most unusual routing in order to reach Hogwarts outside of the restrictions,” she continued. “Please, keep this information to yourselves for a little while.”

Harry drew in a long, shuddering breath and said, “This is the trade you mentioned earlier?”

“Yes.” She titled her head at him slightly. “The barter is your silence, for now, in exchange for our silence on your little sojourn into the Staff Room.” She exhaled forcefully and regarded each of the students in turn. “This is a difficult thing to ask, I know, but it is supremely important. It’s not much in the way of a fair trade, but it’s the best that can be offered right now. Hopefully, you will not have to be bound in silence for long, but we can’t make any guarantees.”

“Then why tell us, Professor?” asked Hermione. Her brow was furrowed and her lips were slightly pursed. Harry recognised it as her determined and serious expression. “If we can’t say anything, why tell us? Why not dismiss us from the Staff Room and discuss what happened to Kensington in private?” She arched an eyebrow as she awaited a response. Harry was surprised. It was the most…Hermione that Hermione had sounded in Professor Lilasmorte’s presence.

He saw a smirk creep onto the professor’s face. “Well questioned, Miss Granger. I suppose that we…have a bit of a different view of what the Head Girl and the Prefects should know.”

Hermione lifted her chin in the air slightly. “Headmaster Dumbledore obviously disagrees with your views as he’s kept this information secret all morning.”

At this point, Professor Auct rejoined the conversation. “With due respect to Headmaster Dumbledore, it’s my experienced opinion as an Auror and your Defence Against The Dark Arts instructor that the founding members of ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ know of any and all Death Eater attacks so that you may plan accordingly.”

“Dumbledore’s Army doesn’t exist,” responded Harry angrily. “It was disbanded last year.” The subject was still quite raw to him, and still tender to Hermione and even Ron as well, he judged by their reactions.

Auct merely smiled at him. “We’ll speak more on this after class, Mr. Potter. For now, you three have duties to complete and charges to take care of, in addition to attending Advanced Transfigurations. You should be on your way.”

The trio nodded mutely and rose from their seats. They made their way to the Staff Room door. Ron opened it a crack, checked to see if anyone was and stepped through. Harry followed, but Hermione paused in the doorway. She turned round and slightly tilted her head to one side, a mannerism that Harry recognised immediately. “Professor Lilasmorte?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Granger?’

“Professor…how did you know where we were standing? How did you know where to step in order to pull the Invisibility Cloak off?”

Harry thought he detected a challenge in Hermione’s tone.

“Luck, mostly. Mr. Potter has spilled some pumpkin juice on himself. I took my cues from his mishap and Professor Auct’s lead.” Her voice sounded somewhat amused to Harry. He felt frustrated at that. Professor Lilasmorte was perplexing him again. Everything about her was damnably off putting.

Hermione mutely indicated her understanding and followed Harry and Ron into the corridor. Ron closed the door behind them and they regarded one another in resignation.

They didn’t speak.

There was no need to.

There was nothing, really, to possibly say.

They were losing. It was possible that they had lost the war but their side was ignoring the prospect. Or were ignoring the inevitable. City blocks had been destroyed. Annihilated. How in the hell were they going to stop a force that powerful?

The information, compounded by the strange behaviour of the Hogwarts’ staff, was still sinking in. Harry silently handed the Invisibility Cloak to Ron, who put it back into his satchel. Ron exhaled noisily and set out down the hall. Hermione began to follow, but Harry reached a hand out for her. He clasped her by her upper arm, staying her. She gave him a look of surprise and concern. Harry just shook his head, and then freed her so that he could take her hand in his. Hermione glanced down at their clasped hands. Her features softened and she gave him a faint smile and his hand a reassuring squeeze. Harry smiled at her in return, grateful and regretful that she had been there with him when he heard the news about Kensington. Together they wordlessly proceeded back to the Great Hall. There was nothing more for him, Hermione, or Ron to do but regain their composure and take the only action available to them as Dumbledore’s Army was no more: collect their First Year charges and then proceeded to class.

∞

Rating: R for language, graphic imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Additional disclaimers may be found in Chapter Five, “At Least, Be Humane”.

Spoiler Alert: Books 1-5.

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: The rating was changed due to violent and adult subject matter in this and proceeding chapters of this story.

Extremum bonorum, malorum.

Footnotes In Reverse: ¹from Part Four: Time and Eternity CXXXII by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)

________________________________________________________

HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER NINE: OF OWLS AND OTHER CURIOSITIES

________________________________________________________

If the morning had been subdued, the afternoon was positively morose. Harry felt as though he and Ron could not be rid of the First Years fast enough. At least some of the Firsties had enough of an awareness to pick up on his and Ron’s mood and not test the Prefects while on the way to their first DADA class.

As much as he wanted to get away from the First Years, Harry was loath to attend Advanced Transfigurations. The class itself did not worry him; what he, Ron, or Hermione, or all three of them might do if goaded by Malfoy did. Harry was absolutely certain that if the Slytherin prefect so much as blinked in an obnoxious manner that he was going to transfigure him into that tea cosy and give him to Dobby. And, he would tell Dobby that it was a Malfoy tea cosy at that.

Dobby would probably wear him as a pair of knickers then.

There were so many thoughts spinning in his head that Harry didn’t remember the walk to Professor McGonagall’s classroom. He had been barely conscious of Ron’s presence. They hadn’t spoken on the way to class. What was there to say? However many kilometres of London had been destroyed, turned to rubble.

What in the hell more is there to say about it? There’s a hole there now, where buildings and people used to be. There was smoke and fire and blood and screaming this morning. There’s a bloody great hole, like the one in Godric’s Hollow after he murdered my parents. It wasn’t that traitor bastard Pettigrew who ripped a hole into the earth, it was Voldemort, I know it was. Pettigrew isn’t anywhere near that strong. If he had been, he wouldn’t have sold my parents to the devil and Sirius to the Dementors.

I wonder if Voldemort was in Kensington. I wonder what he was after there. I don’t think anyone in the Order lives there. Perhaps someone in the Order was on business, was following a lead? Was it a trap? When’s Dumbledore going to bother to tell me about it? Shouldn’t the bloody Boy Who Lived know that Voldemort blew a hole into the city?

There was nothing approaching normal about his final year at Hogwarts. He had given up on that vain hope after Breakfast.

He and his friends took their seats in the classroom. He, Hermione and Ron did little more than exchange glances before sitting down. It was still too much to bear. And there was still nothing that could be said. Not in front of their classmates, at any rate.

Harry wondered if Madame Pince had a map of London in the Library, and, if so, if she would allow him to see it. He had to know. He had to see the street names, see what business, what homes, what schools, what had been there. He had to see the city blocks. He had to see it.

Harry was idly drawing lines, intersecting, parallel, on his parchment when the Slytherin delegation strolled in. Malfoy made a show of strutting past the Gryffindor tables, slowing considerably to parade before table at which Hermione and Vicky Frobisher sat. The Head Girl snorted at him and made a show of her own in flipping through her parchments and spell books.

Harry was surprised, and disappointed, in that Malfoy did little more than to scrunch his nose in distaste and strut to his seat. Parkinson, as always draped across his shoulders, did the same. Harry glared at them as they languidly strolled down the aisle.

Does she know? Does he know? Did his mother somehow get word to him? Are the Junior Death Eaters in on it? No, they would have been going on and on about the poor Muggles this and the poor Muggles that. Malfoy can’t keep his idiotic mouth shut about those sorts of things. He’s not involved. Voldemort isn’t dim. Malfoy and his lot are too thick, too immature.

In a bustle of Hebridean Old tartan, Professor McGonagall entered the classroom, her robes fluttering behind her, a worried and fatigued look upon her face. “Hello, students.” Her voice sounded exhausted as well.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” they automatically replied in unison. Some of the students looked at the professor with some concern, Hermione in particular. She made to raise her hand to ask a question.

McGonagall saw her and made a barely perceptible shake of her head, followed by a sad smile. Hermione nodded slowly and folded her arms across herself. Harry suddenly wished that he were sitting next to her.

The professor gave a wave of her hand and said, “Today’s lesson is an introduction to a most difficult subject. This is most advanced magic, so it would behove all of you to take careful notes and to pay close attention. If you students would kindly open your books to page 249, I should like to begin straight away.” As the students obliged, Professor McGonagall continued. She appeared to have regained some of the colour to her face. With a flick of her wand, she began to diagram the spell onto the blackboard. “The name of the incantation we are going to study is Invertere. This spell, when properly cast, will enable the user to transfer one living creature for another. While in your Fourth Year we studied Cross-Species Switching, this incantation will transpose the subject before you with your target. No matter the distance, what you have fixed in your mind will be summoned before you, with the creature you started with sent to take the second’s place.”

“Harry,” hissed a voice, “This is above and beyond Cross-Species Switching or any Switching Spell. This is…disapparition, switching, and apparition performed on a subject! This is Muggle science as magic, an exchange of matter over a distance!” Hermione was staring at him with excitement in her eyes.

Harry envied her that. He loved how Hermione could become worked up over something like a new spell and momentarily forget the gaping hole in London. He managed a smile for her.

“Guess I should take good notes, then, eh?” Ron joked in a low voice. “Might need to know it later.”

“Of course you’ll need to know it later…”

“…this is a N.E.W.T. level class,” Ron finished with a dogged sigh.

Hermione rolled her eyes at that and turned round in her seat to face the board. Harry took the opportunity to give Ron a nudge and even offered his mate a grin. Harry took some comfort in ordinariness of the exchange and began to copy down Professor McGonagall’s notes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The class seemed to move along quickly to Harry, something he was thankful for. Though they did little more than take notes, discuss theory, and take more notes, their introductory class on Invertere was mostly a blur to him.

Near the end of class was a practical test, a scaled back demonstration of Invertere that every student participated in. Professor McGonagall selected him to be the first to administer the Commutare spell.

“Mr. Potter, if you would, please.”

He looked at Hedwig, who blinked back at him implacably. “I’ll do my best not to queer this,” he murmured to her. He could swear that her yellow eyes widened at that.

“Remember, class, that you must have the form of the other creature fixed in your mind before even considering this incantation. Though Commutare is not as complicated as Invertere it is still a very powerful spell. It takes a certain degree of skill and discipline in order to perform it correctly.” Professor McGonagall nodded to Harry and said, “Please, go ahead, Mr. Potter.”

All eyes were upon Harry. He caught sight of Malfoy, who leered and waggled his eyebrows at him. Harry wished that he could accidentally aim his wand at the prat, turning him into that tea cosy. Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy and nervously cleared his throat. He thought of what Professor McGonagall had said during class, to treat Commutare the same as the Switching Spells. Think of something similar to the target subject. Similar. Got it. He raised his wand, and uttered the incantation as his flicked his wrist. “Commutare.”

Hedwig seemed to glow a bright white. That lasted only a moment. It soon faded into a grey mist that enveloped her form and finally resolved itself into the shape of an owl. A Great Grey Owl.

He heard Hermione gasp and he heard Ron mutter, “Bloody hell.”

They were looking at Ashengrace, the owl who had braved the destruction in Kensington to deliver the scroll to Professor Lilasmorte. Ashengrace hooted and cocked its head to one side. It craned its head to stare Harry squarely in the eyes.

Harry stared back, uncertain of what to do or how it was that he even thought of Ashengrace. He had meant to transpose Ron’s owl Pigwidgeon, who was in the Owlery, for Hedwig.

Professor McGonagall clapped her hands together smartly and smiled at Harry. “Well done, Mr. Potter, well done…and might I add that this is quite a beautiful specimen of Great Grey Owl. Students, as discussed earlier, in order for Mr. Potter’s owl to have been exchanged so successfully, he would have to have visualised a Great Grey in exacting detail. Remember, concentration is key. Now, if you would, Mr. Potter, the counter spell?”

Harry swallowed, nodded and said, “Recurrare”. Ashengrace glowed, but this time the glow was a soft, smoky grey instead of the white of when Hedwig transposed. A white mist developed and swirled around the form of Ashengrace following the glow. When the mist dissipated, the pure white of Hedwig remained. She hooted at him softly and turned to blink at Professor McGonagall. She smiled at the owl and then turned to the rest of the class.

“Now, then, students, we’ll have the rest of you practice Commutare and Recurrare. If the first rows would begin, please? Students, please keep careful watch on how your classmates perform these spells and please make note of anything you might see as being off required form.”

The students in the first row of the classroom began to perform the Commutare spell on their animal companions.

Harry knew that he was supposed to have been minding every swish of the wand, every pronunciation, every word from McGonagall, but he could not help but to think about Kensington.

When they find everyone…if they find everyone…how many people will it be?

Where did Hedwig go? Was she in Kensington? How in the hell did I transpose Hedwig with Ashengrace?

In the background, Neville, instead of transposing his frog Trevor for one of the toads in the lake, transposed Trevor for one of the singing frogs of the Hogwarts Choir.

Paisot seemed to know what he was talking about. If I were Minister Bones, what would I do? Find someplace better than Azkaban and throw in all of the Malfoys for a start. Then Parkinson, since she seems physically dependent on Draco. I can’t imagine the work that has to be done to try to hide this from the Muggles. There can’t possibly be enough Wizards on hand to Obliviate all of the Muggles who witnessed it. They’d have to blanket Obliviate the surrounding blocks. There’s never enough wizards or witches for that.

Seeing what the Daily Prophet has to say will be interesting. And the Muggle media. This would be world-wide news. Wish I could get the Times here.

The singing frog was rather loud. Professor McGonagall was having a difficult time in making herself heard.

I wonder when Dumbledore will tell the school. He can’t keep the news out forever.

Neville managed to transpose the singing frog just in time. It had just started on a drinking song that promised to be extraordinarily naughty when he managed to bring Trevor back. Professor McGonagall concluded the class upon Trevor’s return.

Was someone just singing?

With such thoughts whirling in his head, Harry exited the Advanced Transfigurations class as quietly as he had entered it. Hermione was speaking excitedly about the Invertere lesson, Ron was taking the wind out of her a bit, Seamus and Neville and Dean were still discussing the peculiar behaviour of Professor Snape, and Harry was walking in the midst of them, wordlessly grateful for their being themselves. Hermione would catch his eye from time to time and he would smile for her benefit. It took some effort, but he managed. After all, without them, without Hermione especially, he would have likely fallen apart years ago.

The First Years had proven to be a welcome distraction between classes. As they separated and the Prefects went to round up the First Years yet again, Harry thought that it was a fortunate thing that he was a Prefect. He had not looked upon the opportunity with much appreciation earlier, but now he felt some measure of gratitude toward it. Thankfully, the Firsties seemed to be a bit winded. Professor Auct likely put them through some early paces, with his being an Auror. No doubt the shock of white hair and the purple eyes did much to quiet their moods as well.

The Firsties obediently trundled down into the dungeons for their first meeting with Professor Snape (Ron and Harry smirked at one another at that), and then the Prefects made their way to the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom.

“I’ve got to tell you, Harry, I am almost looking forward to this class. I mean, Auct’s a proper Auror. And he seemed right decent in the Staff Room,” Ron said to him. “D’you reckon that he was any good?”

“As an Auror? Lilasmorte told me that he’d put a few Death Eaters into Azkaban.”

“Bloody hell. She told you that?” Ron mulled over the information and then frowned. “Wait a tic. How would she know?”

Harry stopped walking and stared down at the floor. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that before.” He shuffled his feet nervously. “Her cousin? He’s an Auror.”

He caught sight of the grin spreading across Ron’s face. “Does Hermione know about how Auct’s put away Death Eaters and that Lilasmorte’s the one who told you?” questioned Ron. There was a strange gleam in his eyes, one that made Harry a bit unsteady.

He frowned and said, “Erm, no, I didn’t mention it to her…”

Ron snickered heartily and patted him on the back. “When she finds out, she’s gonna kill you, mate.”

“No, now, wait a minute, you’re never going to tell her?”

“Either I tell her or you tell her, mate. There’s too much going on to be withholding information, right? You need to tell her. Me, I’m the one good at Wizard Chess, Quidditch, and Exploding Snap. Hermione is the brilliant one.”

“You have got to be having me on, mate. When in the hell did you grow up again? I seemed to have missed that.”

“Me? I’ll have you know that I’ve been all grown up for quite sometime, I just can’t be arsed to act that way in public. I’ve an image to uphold, you know. Besides, it shatters me. So much work…” he sighed as they entered the classroom.

For some reason, when Harry entered the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom, he was reminded of Professor Lupin’s time as their instructor. There was something…in the air, something in the mood, something that just reminded him of Lupin.

The professor was waiting for them, seated on his desk as they entered. He smiled and waved and seemed most charming. Harry overheard Lavender and Parvati murmuring to each other about how, if not for the purple eyes, Professor Auct would seem quite dashing. Indeed, he was something of a more subdued Lockhart in terms of dress. And his Auror pedigree did something to further the debonair impression.

Harry was certain that most of the girls present would be swooning over Auct by the end of class and apparently he wasn’t the only one with that opinion. Before they sat down, Seamus stopped and leaned in close to Ron and whispered, “Fancy a wager?”

Ron flicked a glance at Harry. “Go on,” he said to Seamus.

“Who’ll be the first to get all starry-eyed over Plum? 20 packets of Chocolate Frogs that says Lavender will.”

“Oh, you are on mate. If you say Lavender will be the first, then I’m 20 in favour of Parvati.” Ron gave his best mate a nudge in the ribs. “Here, Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but young Mr. Finnegan here has 20 Frogs on Lavender being all soft for Plum and I’ve got 20 on Parvati. What say you?”

He hissed to Ron, “Are you serious? After this morning?”

Ron hissed in return, “What was I supposed to say? No, I’m not in the mood ‘cause of…?” He stared at him, the tension clearly evident in his eyes.

Harry sucked in a breath and tried to keep from looking as annoyed as he felt. Ron, unfortunately, was correct. They still had to act as though things were normal. So, Harry forced down his irritation as best he could and rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. “Oh, both of you think Lavender and Parvati, hmm? Well, then…sorry, Seamus, my Frogs are on Parvati.”

Seamus looked at Thomas and Longbottom. “Dean? Nevs? How’s about you?”

Dean was nodding in appreciation. “I’m backing you up, 20 on Lavender.”

Seamus regarded Neville carefully. “It comes down to you, mate. You decide the balance.”

Neville blinked and then murmured, “I’m…I think…I’m putting 20 on Hermione.”

“What?” said Harry loudly. When Ron glared at him, Harry regained himself and stage whispered, “You’re joking?”

“No, Harry, I mean, remember Second Year? She was totally soft for Lockhart. He’s…Auct’s a bit the same, innit he? With the cape and the clothes and the hair. I mean, it’s white and it sticks out, worse than yours, Harry, but—”

There was a polite cough from behind Neville. The roommates froze. They all cringed as one and hesitantly looked to see Professor Auct smirking at them. He gave them all a little wave. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. So sorry to interrupt, but If I may take a moment of Mr. Longbottom’s time…?” Neville turned to look at his friends, a look of wide-eyed fear on him. Auct took Neville by the arm and walked to his desk, which was at the front of the class but much closer than Harry ever remembered it. It was no longer buttressed by the stairs leading up into the professor’s office; it was now much closer to the students’ desks.

Harry and his friends took Neville’s abduction as a sign that they should take their seats. As they nervously settled in and awaited Neville’s fate, Harry could just hear what Professor Auct was saying.

“Mr. Longbottom,” he heard Auct said gently, “I had the honour of knowing and working with your parents. They were two of the bravest people I have ever known and I wanted you to know that.”

He watched as Neville gulped (he could tell by Neville’s body language) and nodded. “Th-thank you, Professor,” he heard his friend say softly. Neville turned and slowly walked to his seat. He appeared to be mildly amazed. His roommates all reached out to pat him on the back in commiseration for what they thought was a talking to.

Harry stared at the new DADA professor, his estimation of Auct rising by the moment.

When the entire class had all found their seats, Professor Auct leapt off of his desk and stood before them. “Good morning, everyone. My name is Petr Auct and I am your Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher for this term, your final at Hogwarts. To answer some of those questions straight away, yes, I am an Auror. I’ve been an Auror since completing my training on graduation from Hogwarts. I am still active in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

There was some tittering from the Slytherin side, but Hermione stopped them with a single glare. Harry felt great pride in the control she was able to exert over them with a simple look.

Auct smiled at Hermione and then continued. “Where was I…yes, I am an alumnus of Gryffindor and no, I shan’t tell you my N.E.W.T.S., but, obviously they were good enough to get me accepted into the Auror Training Programme. I was a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team and we were quite good in my day here, and I still play on occasion. I attended Hogwarts with your mothers and fathers and likely know at least one embarrassing thing about all of them. And, no, my hair wasn’t always white, my eyes weren’t always purple, but that is simply the way life goes sometimes, isn’t it?” He grinned at them and clasped his hands together. “Right, I would imagine that covered what you wanted to know about me?”

There was quiet assent in the class.

“Excellent then, let’s get started, shall we? First off, I should like to know how many people in this class are familiar with the Dark Arts.”

The students looked at one another and then, as a group, stared at Professor Auct.

He held his arms out and shook his head. “Sorry about that, what I mean to ask is, how many of you students are familiar with the Dark Arts on a first hand basis? Have seen it in action outside of a classroom setting; have perhaps even uttered an Unforgivable…?” When he said that, Auct directed a pointed gaze at the Slytherin side of the room.

Malfoy, who had for all intents and purposes left Harry and his friends alone prior to the start of class, snorted and leaned back in his seat. “Why are you looking at us, Professor? Surely you don’t mean to imply that we, as Slytherin, would have anything to do with the Dark Arts?” He managed to put a note of wheedling innocence in his question, something that Harry was impressed by. Then Malfoy issued his trademark sneer and cast a disparaging look in Harry’s direction. “One need not be a Slytherin to speak an Unforgivable,” he said, arching an eyebrow at Harry.

The former members of Dumbledore’s Army all turned in their seats to glare at Malfoy. When they did so, Harry couldn’t help but to feel another swell of pride. These were his friends, his classmates, his…supporters, all still rallying around him despite the dissolution of the DA.

Malfoy and his lot stared back, smug and undeterred by the informal show of force.

There was a polite cough from the front of the classroom. It seemed to Harry that Auct had been carefully watching the stare-down. “No, you are correct, Mr. Malfoy, one does not have to be a Slytherin in order to use an Unforgivable.” He waited for them to turn back around and then continued. “Now that we’ve gotten that misconception cleared up, let’s get up to speed, as they say. Let’s review what you know of defensive spells, counterattacks, and offensive spells, in that order.”

“All of it?” asked Seamus incredulously.

Auct grinned and shrugged. “No? Okay, then, we don’t have to do all of that today. Let’s review your knowledge of defensive spells. Mr. Finnegan, please name one that you know and know well.”

“Um…” Seamus appeared slightly flustered. “Protego,” he announced with a triumphant grin.

Auct slapped his hands together and practically bounced on the balls of his feet. “Yes. Very good, Mr. Finnegan. The shield charm. Most effective. The stronger the witch or wizard, the stronger the barrier.”

Seamus looked around at his friends, obviously well chuffed, and Harry saw him and Hermione trade smiles.

Harry’s eyes immediately narrowed at the sight. I wonder what you would look like as a tea cosy, Mr. Finnegan…

“Mr. Longbottom,” said the professor, “What about you, now?”

“Well…um…” Neville bit his lower lip and then offered, “Finite Incantatem?”

Malfoy snorted and scoffed, “That’s not a defence spell.” He slumped in his seat, a look of utter disdain on his face.

The professor chuckled at that and arched an eyebrow at the Slytherin prefect. “Now, now, Mr. Malfoy, have some imagination. Mr. Longbottom used some fine logic in naming the Finite Incantatem spell. It does effectively cease the effects of a spell that is in operation. Also, it is not an offensive incantation, it’s a counter, but it is used defensively. So, Mr. Longbottom is correct in categorising Finite Incantatem as a defensive spell. For that, five points to Gryffindor.”

Neville’s roommates again clapped him on the back, Dean and Ron giving him a punch each to his shoulders and Harry ruffling his hair.

Malfoy slunk lower into his seat and glowered at them.

“What about you, Mr. Malfoy? Care to name a defensive spell?” Auct flashed a winsome smile at the young man, earning some muffled ‘oohs’ from the class.

Harry saw as Ron threw flicked a small bit of crumpled parchment at Seamus. It hit him in the back of the head and Harry had to swallow down a snicker. “Oi, d’you hear that? That was Parvati, mate,” he hissed. “Give me my Frogs.”

“Weasley, you are mental. It was never her,” Seamus retorted in a whisper, “that was Lavender. Give me my Frogs.”

“In your dreams, mate.”

“What are you going on about?” muttered Hermione over her shoulder. “Are you trying to lose us points?”

They were interrupted by a dramatically forceful sigh. “Fine. A defensive spell,” Malfoy drawled. “Claudecrorare,” he smirked.

Auct smirked in return. “One of the hex-deflecting spells. Good, Mr. Malfoy.” He turned to address one of the Gryffindors. “Miss—”

“Professor, wait a moment.”

He turned back toward Draco. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

“No points?” He appeared to be openly puzzled, but Harry knew from experience that his tone was far from sincere. From the expression on Professor Auct’s face, Harry surmised that he could also tell that Malfoy was being derisive.

“So sorry, but, no points, Mr. Malfoy. That was an easy one.”

Malfoy didn’t appear as though he were satisfied with the response. “Why are we going through this, then? This is supposed to be a N.E.W.T. level course and we’re reviewing the most rudimentary spells and charms, defensive ones at that.” He snorted again. “I don’t see what good this will do. Making a list of what defences we learned six years ago doesn’t make much sense.”

There was a sharp laugh and the students were surprised to learn that it was the professor who had laughed. “Ah! Yes! There it is. I was warned about your unusual skills of debate, Mr. Malfoy. As apt as your observation was, it still doesn’t gain Slytherin any points.” He flashed another grin at them. “This is the first time that I’ve met any of you, Mr. Malfoy.” He cast his purple gaze at Harry, Ron, and Hermione for a moment and then looked back at Malfoy. “I should think that it would be prudent of me to gauge your learning to date, no? After all, this has been, historically, the least consistent position at our fair institution. So, to put a cap on this particular conversation, you, Mr. Malfoy, shall just have to try harder the next time, eh?”

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but apparently thought better of challenging an Auror and immediately clamped it shut. As his Slytherin housemates all pulled faces and shifted in their seats, Professor Auct turned back to the Gryffindor side. He caught Harry’s eye and winked at him. Harry found himself smiling back.

Auct Plum had unquestionably risen in his regard. As the Auror went from student to student, engaging them, encouraging them, causing them display their knowledge of defence, Harry smiled. For the first time since Professor Lupin had taught the class their Third Year, Harry reckoned that Hogwarts had a legitimate Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher.

And it was someone that they desperately needed if they were all to survive.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry nearly made it through the door of the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom. He had nearly made it.

He had intended to speak with Professor Auct after class about his playing days on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, but after he had made mention of Dumbledore’s Army in the Staff Room…Harry didn’t want to talk about the DA, so he tried to leave the class as quickly as he could.

Some particularly slow-footed Slytherin had made a bit of a traffic jam in the entryway, so Harry was forced to wait for them to shuffle along. He briefly considered use of Mobilicorpus. The image was amusing to Harry, that of Slytherins floating down the hall like the bags of hot air that most of them were.

Professor Auct shattered his afternoon daydream with seven words. “Mr. Potter? A word, if you please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, moaned inwardly, and then turned round, trying his best not to look…trapped.

“Yes, Professor?”

Auct motioned for him to come to his desk. Harry trod over and stood, his arms hanging limply to his sides. The professor took a peek over Harry’s shoulder and then looked him in the eye. “How are you and your friends?” he asked in a low voice.

Harry was impressed that Auct was concerned about them. “We’re…I’m…I’m not sure, really. We haven’t really spoken about it. I mean…how…” Harry shook his head. “I’m in shock, I suppose,” he finished quietly. “I think we all are.”

“I understand, Mr. Potter, believe me, I do. I’ve been an Auror for some years now and I’m still shaken every single time. I’m glad for that, really. I don’t want to forget, I don’t want to stop caring.”

Harry nodded mutely.

“I knew your father, Mr. Potter,” Auct said.

“I know.” When the professor evidenced surprise, Harry explained, “I’ve a box of photographs of my mum and dad from their school days. Dad had a number of Quidditch photographs and you’re in most of them.”

He grinned at Harry. “Ah, yes, your dad was quite the player. I hear you are as well. The youngest Seeker in school history and one of the best, is it?”

“I’m all right,” he shrugged, a self-conscious grin on his lips.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Potter, particularly not with someone as mad about Quidditch as I am. You’re father was a fine Seeker, and a fine Chaser as well. In fact, if it wasn’t for his switch to Seeker, I wouldn’t have gotten on the team.”

“He did that for you?”

Auct grinned at that. “Yes, actually, he did.” The grin faded and he considered Harry with a degree of solemnity. “Unfortunately, I didn’t ask you to stay after class solely to enquire on you and your friends and to discuss Quidditch.”

Harry looked down at the floor and then regarded the professor dourly. “You want to talk about the DA.”

“Yes. I should think it would be a very good idea for you to reform it.”

“No, Professor.” An edge crept into Harry’s voice. “I can’t do that.” He forced himself to keep his eyes open despite the images again burning in his mind. Fifth Year. The Department of Mysteries. Hermione and Antonin Dolohov. Sirius and Bellatrix Lestrange. Sixth Year. The British Library. Ron, Neville, and Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange…

“Mr. Potter, with what’s happened in Kensington…”

It was all that Harry could do to keep from snapping at the older man. You haven’t seen the things I‘ve had to see. You haven’t put your friends in harms way the way that I’ve done. Because of that damn Dumbledore’s Army. “With due respect, Professor Auct, you cannot ask me to do that. Dumbledore’s Army is no more and for good reason. I can’t – I won’t ask them to regroup. I won’t do it. I won’t.”

Auct sighed heavily and placed his hands together, palms facing, and tapped the tips of his fingers against his chin. At length he said, “In the very least, I should hope that you would think about it, Mr. Potter.” When Harry began to argue, Auct held his hands out before him in a gesture of what looked to be supplication. “Thinking does not commit nor bind you to anything, Mr. Potter. All that I ask is that you please reconsider your decision. You did great work with the DA. Much of what you and Miss Granger did in preparing the members is on par with what I would have done. I needn’t tell you what the students feel about the DA. Please, just mull it over in your mind. I wish that I could tell you to take as long as you would like, but with this morning…I’m sure you understand that there is some urgency in my request to you.”

Harry drew in a long, shuddering, breath and swallowed. “I’ll…consider the idea, Professor. But I am not promising that anything will come of it. The DA is no more and…I can’t imagine it returning, but, I will give it some thought.” He closed his eyes and averted his face away from Professor Auct. “The end of the week. If, and,” here he laughed ruefully and looked Auct in his purple eyes, “only if I change my mind, I will let you know at week’s end. Otherwise, Dumbledore’s Army remains what it is today, a broken memory.”

The professor stood from his desk and extended a hand. “I give you my word as a Gryffindor that if you decide that the DA should remain disbanded, I will not bother you with further talk of reorganising it.”

Harry appreciated the gesture and took Auct’s hand in his and shook it. “I give you my word as a Gryffindor that I will consider the option.”

“Fair enough.” Auct grinned and nodded to the door way. “I think it’s cleared a bit. I know you’ve ickle firsties to get to Dinner now.”

Harry threw his head back and groaned. “Right. Them. Thanks, Professor.” He slowly began to trudge out of the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom, his body staging a mild rebellion at the thought of herding the First Years into the Great Hall for the third time.

Auct called out from behind him, “Good hunting, then, Mr. Potter!”

Harry groaned again, rolled his eyes, and trod down the corridor to find Ron. He certainly wasn’t going to suffer the Firsties alone at Dinner. Someone would have to endure the pain with him, and it might as well be Ron…

He caught up with him soon enough. Ron had waited for him at the end of the hall. He nodded to him by way of greeting and leaned in close. “What did Plummy want?”

“He…he asked how we were,” explained Harry. He didn’t feel like sharing the professor’s request regarding the DA. He didn’t want to put the idea into anyone else’s mind. The last thing that Harry felt he needed was to have another person encouraging him to reconstitute the group.

“Bloody hell. That was decent of him,” murmured Ron.

“Yes, it was indeed,” agreed Harry.

“So, how are we?”

Harry sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he finally replied.

Ron shook his head and said, at length, “Good answer.”

They fell into silence as they made their way to Gryffindor Tower. Ever so often it seemed as though Ron thought to say something, but he never acted upon his urge.

Harry felt alternately grateful and frustrated. They couldn’t talk about what had happened in Kensington, at least not until it was announced, if it was going to be announced to the school. It felt…hollow to speak of any of their usual subjects, Quidditch, the Cannons, Quidditch, Snape, Malfoy, Quidditch, the First Years. With the knowledge of what had occurred, no topic seemed appropriate.

They reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, where a small herd of First Years had gotten themselves stranded.

He and Ron looked at one another jadedly. They turned to face the young students. “Forgot the password?” they asked in unison.

The First Years baulked and nodded quickly.

“Bloody lucky it was us and not Filchy,” Ron muttered to Harry.

They moved to the front of the pack and blinked at the Fat Lady. She was in full recline, eating a bunch of oil paint grapes and humming to herself. Harry and Ron glanced at one another, rolled their eyes, and then said, “Yard of flannel,” together.

The Fat Lady paused and looked down her nose at them. She arched an eyebrow and rolled a grape between her forefinger and thumb. “You could sound a bit happier about it, you know,” she complained in a droll voice.

Harry and Ron looked at one another again. Both took in a deep breath, and then said in louder voices, “Yard of flannel.”

The Fat Lady snorted at them and shrugged her Raphaelesque shoulders. “Seventh Year Prefects…always think they are so high and mighty…have no sense of propriety,” she murmured to her grapes in a stage whisper, eyeing them surreptitiously.

“For the love of Merlin,” Ron hissed under his breath.

Harry stepped as close to the painting as he could, forced a grin onto his face, and said in a bright and cheery voice, “Yard! Of! Flannel! Please!”

The Fat Lady paused from considering her grapes, batted her eyelashes at him, and sighed. “Ooh, thank you.” The portrait swung open and the First Years darted inside, Ron and Harry stalking in after them.

“Bloody woman gets worse every year,” seethed Ron.

As they staked in, Harry watched the First Years they had escorted in scatter across the Common Room. He glowered and called out to them. “Here! You lot! First Years! Put your books in your rooms and wash up or whatever it is that you do before you eat. We are leaving for the Great Hall in five minutes!” He and Ron traded sour glances and both collapsed onto the sofa together with a groan.

“Hard day at work, boys?” asked an amused voice.

Ron and Harry looked to their right. Hermione was in the wing chair by the window, regarding them with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“You set them up to this, didn’t you, woman?” asked Ron.

Hermione’s smirk widened, but she said nothing.

“Bugger all,” sighed Harry. He laid his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “I’m just going to sit here a moment and wait for them to come back downstairs. Five minutes, right?”

“Five minutes, mate,” answered Ron.

“Brilliant.”

They were silent for a little while, listening to the fire crackle, to the sound of Dean and Neville playing Exploding Snap in the far corner, to the sound of students passing through the Common Room on their way to the Great Hall.

“Harry?” asked a voice.

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Do you think that…at Dinner…that there will be an announcement?” Her voice was very soft.

Harry took a moment before replying. “I don’t know,” he told her.

“Surely there must be something?”

“I just…I don’t…I’m sorry, I just don’t want to think about it right now, Hermione.” He didn’t move his head, he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to see the look of concern on Hermione’s face.

“We’ll know if there is or isn’t soon enough,” Ron said, his voice kind.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Harry echoed weakly.

She sighed. “You’re right. You’re…right.”

They were silent again. Presently, the First Years entered the Common Room. Though he didn’t want to, Harry opened his eyes and stood. “Right, then. We’re off to the Great Hall again. Try not to get lost this time, would you please, Mr. Fisher?”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry held a hand out to Ron and helped him to his feet. Then he walked over to Hermione and extended his hand to her. She appeared surprised by the gesture, but she smiled and took his hand. Together, he, Ron and Hermione led the First Years out of the tower.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Only three students managed to lose themselves between Gryffindor Tower and the Great Hall, an improvement from the morning and the afternoon. They were also much more manageable than at Lunch. Harry was afraid to hold out too much hope for them to continue to improve.

When they entered the Great Hall, he immediately scanned the dais. All of the staff were present and were talking amongst themselves. Professors Snape and Lilasmorte were again engaged in conversation, much as Harry had witnessed in the Staff Room. Lilasmorte had no expression on her face, however. Snape was doing most of the talking and seemed virtually animated. Something about seeing Lilasmorte and Snape chatting caused a twinge in the back of Harry’s mind. He shook the feeling off and took his seat with his classmates.

Dumbledore rose from his seat and held his arms out before the assembled school. The Great Hall fell silent, with some First Years giggling nervously. He looked across the hall, surveying the students of Hogwarts, his eyes pausing briefly on the Gryffindor table. Then the Headmaster declared, “Here sit our feast-eating queens and kings, whose futures our hopes rely on; may you never believe in foolish things that come from the mouth of a wise man.” He smiled and clapped his hands together. “Come, students, and eat your feast with me. Let us dine.”

At that, Dumbledore took his seat and a fantastic spread of food and drink appeared on every table, eliciting sounds of delight and wonder from the First Years and even some Second Years.

Ron leaned across the table, toward Hermione. Harry joined him. “That can’t be it,” he muttered. “It’s a bloody joke if that’s all there is to it.”

“There has to be more than that, there just has to be,” Hermione said in an undertone as she moved her arm out of Dean’s way.

Harry rolled his eyes and glowered. “This is just typical, isn’t it? They are always shutting us out. Even now, we’re left out.”

Hermione gave him a concerned look. “There has to be a reason for it. Perhaps there will be something later.”

“What, tell us after we’ve eaten, so students don’t lose their appetites? Bloody hell, if they wait ‘til after dessert, they’ll have students losing their dinner,” grumbled Ron.

“At any rate, there isn’t much that we can do,” she said, giving them both looks of warning.

Harry sighed and nodded. Ron shrugged and pointed to a platter next to Hermione. “Might as well tuck in, then. Hermione, would you?”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “Ron, you are utterly indefatigable.” She picked up the plate of sliced ham and handed it to him.

He blinked at her. “I’m hungry.” He started to load food onto his plate. “And thanks.”

Hermione shook her head and poured herself a goblet of water.

Harry began helping himself to food, more as an automatic response than from a desire to eat. He didn’t really feel like eating, but he didn’t want to have to answer any questions, either. It gave him something to focus on as well, something to keep his eyes on. He certainly didn’t want to have any reason to look up from his plate.

After the one thousand, three hundred and tenth time of pushing his food around on his plate to make it appear as though he were eating, it came time for dessert. The Great Hall became quiet once again. Harry finally raised his eyes and looked up.

Headmaster Dumbledore was standing again. He folded his hands before him and regarded the students sadly. He nodded to himself, glanced down at the table top before him, and then addressed them all. “It is my sad duty to inform you of certain events that have taken place outside of our hallowed walls. As all of you students are well aware, in recent months, there have been attacks made upon Wizards and Muggles alike. Attacks which have occurred for no reason than due to a misguided belief that one’s pureness of heritage entitles one to believe that one is superior to all others.” Dumbledore’s voice took on a tone that Harry thought might be anger. Repressed, controlled, icy anger…and that startled him. “I cannot stress enough the flawed logic in this presumption. It is not one’s lineage that makes one better. It is not how much money one has tucked away in Gringott’s. No, students, there is nothing that makes one better than the other. We are all equal. I am no different than Mr. Creevey, who is no different than Ms. Bones who is no different than Mr. Nott who is no different than Ms. Turpin. We are all wizards and witches. We are all, in a word, human. We are no better, we are no worse. It is our actions, and our actions alone that should colour one’s perceptions, and not the branches of one’s family tree.” Dumbledore took in a deep breath and continued. “That being said…I am sorry that I must inform you all of a Death Eater attack which occurred this morning in a part of Kensington.”

There were gasps throughout the Great Hall. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all looked to one another. Here it was. At long last. They were being told.

“We have been advised by the Ministry of Magic that this attack has resulted in great damage and in a number of deaths. The Ministry is at this time uncertain of how many have perished, or who are among the missing, but I assure you that they are working tirelessly to find all involved in this most egregious attack, victim and Death Eater alike.

Please know that you are safe here at Hogwarts. In point of fact, this is the safest place for all of you students. You will have noticed that owl posts were suspended today; it is our hopes that the posts will resume tomorrow, if not the morning than by the afternoon. Your families have been contacted by representatives of the Ministry and they have all been informed of your well being.”

There was more noise at that, relief mixed with murmured questions. Dumbledore raised his hands again, and the students came to an uneasy silence. “You shall be notified of any new information as soon as it is received from the Ministry and as soon as I and Professor McGonagall have advised your instructors.” He again looked around the Great Hall and nodded slowly. “I am sorry, students. I believe that it would be most prudent for all to retire for the evening now. Prefects, if you would, please, ensure that all return to their Houses. Your Heads of House will meet with you momentarily. Miss Granger, Mr. MacMillan, shortly thereafter Professor McGonagall will meet with you as well. Good night, students.”

The Headmaster turned around and walked off of the dais, the professors filing out after him.

The students were all talking at once, disturbed and nervous and frightened of the news. Many of the Muggle-born students were angry. “What in the hell happened in Kensington?” said Dean in a sharp tone.

“Maybe that’s what McGonagall will tell Ron and Harry in a little while. Yeh’d tell us what she says, though, right?” asked Seamus.

Ron nodded in distraction. ‘Yeah, mate, yeah.” He glanced at Harry and put a hand on his shoulder. “Harry? You don’t look so good.”

It had come upon him quite suddenly. Harry felt his body go cold and his head go dizzy. “I don’t feel so good,” he said softly. He stood and immediately had to steady himself against the table.

His friends all stood from the table. “You should see Madame Pomfrey,” cautioned Hermione, a frown on her face.

He shook his head and regretted doing so. “No, I’m just…it’s been a long day…and the news…” He picked up his goblet and took a sip of water. “I’ll be all right.” With a little difficulty he climbed over the bench and started to walk.

As they started to exit the Great Hall together, Ron again put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Listen, you go on ahead to the dorm and try to get some rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

“No, Ron, you can’t, the Firsties…you can’t possibly…”

“I can and I will. We’ve faced worse, right? ‘Sides, maybe I can persuade Nearly Headless Nick to put a scare into them. It’ll be fine, mate. Just go on up and we’ll be there in a bit, right?”

“Yeah, Harry,” joined in Neville. “I’ll help Ron. Honestly, it’s no bother. You really don’t look at all well.”

“We’ll help too, right, Dean?”

“Yeah, the three of us should make up for the one of you, Harry.”

He nearly laughed at that and smiled at his friends. “Thank you. Really, thanks.”

“S’awright, Harry, you’ll just have to owe me,” grinned Ron. “Right then, lads, time for you to know what it’s like to be a Keeper…” Harry watched his roommates march over to the milling First Years and begin to get them moving.

He watched them go, his stomach clenching at the sight. He felt a slender hand slip into his and a voice murmured into his ear,” Are you sure that you will be all right?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes, Hermione, I’ll be fine. It’s…with everything…I just need to lie down,” he told her, opening his eyes and smiling. They walked together for a while, Hermione wrapping her arm around his. For a time it was as though she was guiding him instead of walking alongside him. Harry could have closed his eyes again with no trepidation and solely relied upon her.

Hermione walked with him as far as the Common Room, where they literally danced around their housemates. A couple of Gryffindors tried to ask Harry questions, but the Head Girl managed to still them with a wave of her hand. Once more Harry was amazed at the simple things about Hermione. She was the natural leader, not him. Someone somewhere had gotten that wrong. She was able to persuade with a glance, command with a gesture.

She should have been in charge of the DA.

Then, things would be…

“Harry, I’m sorry, but I have to go now,” she told him. She had walked him to the foot of the staircase leading to the Boy’s Dormitory. He nodded.

“Thank you, Hermione.” He hung his head and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked again, worry slipping into her voice.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Would you please tell Professor McGonagall…?”

She smiled at him. “Yes, Harry, don’t worry, you’ll have a note from the Head Girl. Besides, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“Thanks. Again.”

She gave his hand a brief squeeze and stepped away, back into the Common Room.

He looked at her for a moment. Harry wished that he could have said something, done something, in that instant, but he was so utterly drained by the day and the deaths in Kensington that he could think of nothing to do or say. But he knew that the moment required some form of action. He simply knew it. There were words, there were grand gestures, there were things that happened in those spaces, things that people could be happily lost in. Things that he knew he wanted himself and Hermione to be lost in. Things that would keep them from thinking about the Department of Mysteries and Sixth Year and a hole in Kensington. When Hermione finally turned away from him in order to address a question asked of her by a Third Year, he sighed. It was another moment gone, another space left unfilled. Another something that he didn’t know how to fix, how to take care of. Another mistake in a minor key, made by him.

Harry sighed again, ran a hand through his hair, and began the climb up to his dorm room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It burned me in the night,

It blistered in my dream;

It sickened fresh upon my sight

With every morning’s beam. ¹

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry had knotted the bed sheets about him and had enveloped his body in a cocoon of white cotton. His young face was contorted into a grimace.

Harry was having a nightmare.

In his mind’s eye, he could see himself walking the granite hallways of Hogwarts. His bare feet padded silently against the oddly warm stone floor. His pyjamas hung loosely from his frame. There was an odd peace to the aloneness that he felt, but there was something tangible in the air, a form of fear. He could almost taste it. Coppery. Acrid. Stale. Opposite to everything he had ever known about Hogwarts, equal to everything he had every really known about his life under the threat of Voldemort. His surroundings were tainted with the faint metallic scent. And now his ears were assaulted by the barely perceptible murmur of water. It reminded him of a stream near the Forbidden Forest. He recalled sitting at that stream during breaks from he studies with Ron and Hermione. The burbling of that little brook brought him happy thoughts, ones of innocence and merriment. But this sound, what he was hearing now, didn’t inspire the same feeling. Worse, a growing sense of dread and foreboding was welling up from his gut, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He was terrified, more so than he had ever been in his entire life. He continued forward, walking steadily, although his breath was quickening. The terrible noise grew louder. It became more distinct, more insistent.

it’s only water it’s only water it’s only water it’s only water isn’t it?

His heart was beating so quickly and so loudly that he hoped that the noise would drown out the gurgling noise that was steadily approaching. But it didn’t. He began to think that nothing would.

He continued forward, seemingly unable to stop himself. He concluded that he must have been dreaming, that he must be having a nightmare.

The sound now increased in volume and intensity with every footstep. The metallic scent was growing in pungency as well. That too was strangely familiar, although he couldn’t place it as yet. It did evoke another memory, but that had yet to resurface.

So he continued onward, despite his trembling arms and queasy stomach. Having been the focus of sundry horrors for so long, for having to battle such horrors daily, he sense of evil was preternaturally heightened. Here, in the comforting familiarity of Hogwarts and its infinite corridors, he felt horrified to the core. The water-like sound was insistent. And it was getting louder.

Yet he continued on.

Shortly, he found himself descending into the dungeons and rounding the bend in the corridor that would take him before Snape's office. As he turned the corner and spotted the door, he suddenly remembered what the metallic smell was; now so strong he could taste it in his mouth.

It was blood.

That was the smell he remembered from his youth, when his uncle and cousin would inflict random damage to him for imagined transgression, or just for laughs.

That was the taste he remembered from his numerous and scarring experiences facing Voldemort and his Death Eaters, the physical accompaniment to the many psychological injuries inflicted upon him by the man who murdered his parents.

That was the substance that churned and boiled behind Snape's office door and was now beginning to seep underneath.

That is what spilled forth as the door swung open, in a sickening slow-motion display.

That is what coursed over Harry's bare feet, warm and red and sticky.

That is what was spattered all over Snape's black robes.

That is what dripped from his mouth, his dark eyes ablaze in mad ferocity, which shone like beacons in his pallid alien face. His mouth contorted into a leering grin as those burning eyes fixed upon him, poor little Harry James Potter, a million miles from Godric’s Hollow, a million years from the arms of his parents, a million lifetimes from his remembered happiness.

Snape held his arms apart, in a mockery of an extended embrace, a parody of protection and suffering, a parochial posture, as a fetid, demented laugh cackled from his bloody lips.

Then Harry was struck in the leg by something bobbing in the current of blood. He looked down even though he didn’t want to look down but he had to he just had to what was it what had struck against his leg? oh jesus it was an arm it was ginny’s arm and that damned diary was burnt into the flesh of the palm the diary that ginny had been lost to but he destroyed that didn’t he? and there was another face one that was young and innocent and familiar with the dark hair and grey eyes and then another face rising from beneath the sea of red oh merlin the grey eyes full of terror it was the face of sirius no no no no no no and then harry’s eyes grew wide and a whimper built itself in his stomach but could not find its way to his mouth because then he saw the head and torso of ron still encased in his quidditch gear but where were his legs his legs oh god stop this and then there was the head of hermione, staring at him with brown eyes wide in horror and the mouth open in disbelief....

It was then that he screamed, as the air forced its way through his lungs and ripped at his throat until he stopped to vomit into the swirling red mass at his feet.

And then he realized the reason for the hideous deluge.

He ate them.

His friends, his classmates. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Seamus, Dean, Luna, and those who had gone before, whose faces and limbs he did not recognize from the nauseous soup flowing around him.

He took them, used them, seduced them into trusting him, and then used them some more, and then when he could no longer find a use for them, he destroyed them, he took their lives, he consumed them. He killed them, he used them, they were dead, all of them, dead.

He took their battered hearts into his mouth and gnawed on them with those teeth and eagerly drank their blood and used them one final time to sustain him.

And then he saw he face in the hideous morass.

And then he screamed again.

And then he looked up.

Above him Snape loomed, and his face displayed the derangement that the fractured personality only hinted at and the creature that was snape no tom marvolo riddle voldemort smiled at him and then lunged with the hooked and cruel fingers its teeth stained by the blood on its lips and harry screamed again as the creature took his head in its hands and kissed the lighting-bolt scar with those blood-smeared lips....

...And then Harry awoke, and realized that he had kicked and shouted himself awake. Seamus, Dean, and Neville sat wide-eyed and frightened in their beds and Ron was directly in front of him.

His face was creased with concern and worry. He held spoke to Harry gently, in a voice made quiet and calm. “It’s all right, Harry, it will be all right,” he murmured to him. “It was only a dream, a nightmare, that’s all.”

“No.” That was the only sound that scraped its way from his raw throat before he flung himself back against his bed and buried his face in the pillow.

The last thing that he remembered as he sobbed himself back to sleep, as his best mate awkwardly walked away, was that Ron Weasley had both his legs.

∞